


What You're Looking For

by jellybeanforest



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Sacrifice, Attempted Rape, Bottom Tony Stark, Brothels, Cap-IronMan Reverse Big Bang, Child Abuse, Extensive Historical Footnotes, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Language Barrier, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Murder, No rape or attempted rape between Steve and Tony, Past Tony Stark/Obadiah Stane - Freeform, Protective Steve Rogers, Racism, Sexual Slavery, Slave tony stark, Slavery, Threats of sexual violence, Tony Stark feigns stupidity, Top Steve Rogers, Victim's complicated feelings towards their rapist, Viking Steve Rogers, implied infanticide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Captured by invading Viking forces, Roman slave Antonius is forced to serve a new master, Norse raider Stein the Longhair.For the 2020 Cap-IronMan Reverse Big Bang (Team Fortune).This fic is done and will be updated throughout the day until complete.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 224
Kudos: 568
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Reverse Bang 2020, The best written Stony fics out there





	1. New Master, New Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MassiveSpaceWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MassiveSpaceWren/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Unexpected Fortune [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24429595) by [MassiveSpaceWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MassiveSpaceWren/pseuds/MassiveSpaceWren). 



> This is set early during the age of the Vikings (circa 790-1066 AD) approximately 300-400 years following the fall of the Roman Empire (480 AD). There’s really no way of getting around this, but the basis of the Viking economy was slavery. They attacked and pillaged other villages mainly to capture slaves (called thralls), usually from the British Isles or Eastern Europe but also as far down as the Iberian Peninsula (where the Moors ruled from around 711-1492 AD). Slaves were likely used as domestic labor (a common insult was for a Viking man was to say another Viking man milked his own cows, and some Viking women refused to milk their own cows as well), and as labor to built boats and sew sails. There is some indication that Viking culture may have been polygamous for elite men, leaving many lower-caste men to carry off women from their pillaging as concubines (sex slaves) or wives. This is bolstered by the fact that when they did a DNA analysis of the founding Icelandic population (which were Vikings), 80% of the men were Nordic (Vikings), and around 70% of the women were Gaelic from the British Isles. The Vikings also sold slaves in international markets, notably Dublin (Ireland), Birka (Sweden), and Hedeby (Denmark) among others. Most of these slaves were captured people, but occasionally, a Norsemen could be forced into slavery as punishment for murder or thievery. Slaves could purchase their freedom or be freed by their masters at any time, but them and any children they had after being freed would be beholden to their original masters for two generations after which they are 100% free. 
> 
> Contrary to popular opinion, Vikings were actually very clean. We know this because other contemporary Europeans complained a lot about Vikings tempting their women (even nobleman’s daughters) to become their concubines by *checks notes* bathing, changing their clothes, combing their hair, and overall not smelling like ass. Though again, most of the women they had were likely slaves they picked up from pillaging and not those falling into the arms of their slightly-less-smelly men. As long as they weren’t slaves, Viking women enjoyed more social freedom than other European women. They could own inherit and own property and initiate divorce (with possible dire financial consequences for their ex husband in that she may be entitled to a return of her dowry), and often managed the home and finances for the household. Harassment and unwanted male attention was very looked down upon and also illegal with heavy fines depending on severity. 
> 
> So, this is a historical AU. I did some research, but I am not a historian. If you see some mistakes, then this story takes place in an alternate universe where everything is the same as the Viking Age, with whatever I forgot omitted and whatever I mistook added. It’s fanfiction; it’s not that deep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonius, otherwise known as Tony, is a Roman slave bound to Obie, the Anglo-Saxon proprietor of an old-fashioned Roman bath house-slash-brothel in the town of Bath (formerly Aquae Sulis) in the British Isles. A relic of a bygone era that has since fallen into disrepair following the end of the Western Roman Empire several centuries before, the baths have been revived through Tony’s ingenuity, enriching his master and elevating Tony’s station from common whore to prized engineer. Tony isn’t exactly happy, but his position is more or less stable, and he no longer has to entertain customers on a regular basis, even if Obie still summons him to his chambers some nights. Things aren’t ideal, but they’ve been worse.
> 
> And then Bath is hit by a Viking raiding party, and Tony’s world is turned upside down when he is claimed by the Norseman known as Stein the Longhair. The two may not share a language, but they come to an understanding nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bath, Somerset, was originally called Aquae Sulis, a Roman colony where the Romans took advantage of the natural hot springs to build luxurious bath houses circa 60 AD. When the Roman Empire fell in 480 AD, the original Roman baths fell into disrepair and were lost. Aquae Sulis was captured by Saxons in 577 AD, and the Anglo-Saxon poem “The Ruin” may have described how the baths looked by the 8th century (basically describes a grand structure that is now dilapidated). A traditional Roman bath had three parts: A tepidarium (warm room) from which you could enter the caldarium (hot room) or frigidarium (cold room). At some point, Aquae Sulis was renamed Badum, Baoan, or Badon, which is the basis of its current name: Bath.
> 
> Although the text is in English for the most part, Tony speaks Common Brittonic while Steve speaks Old Norse (fluent) and Old Irish (conversational). I will use the appropriate language to highlight the miscommunication between Tony and Steve with Tony written in English and Steve written in Norse. They will understand each other better as the story goes on and Tony secretly learns Old Norse (while pretending to be as dumb as a box of rocks), so eventually Steve will be written in English as well, but it’s going to be touch and go at the beginning. As Tony learns, I will also use the Norse words as appropriate to indicate his unfamiliarity with certain words, often leading to misunderstandings in future chapters. Additionally, some Norse words that are difficult to translate or may look funny in English will be used very sparingly later, even if everyone in attendance understands them. Translations will be in the end notes.
> 
> Tony is also raped by Obie in an early scene, which is implied to have started after Tony had been working as a bath house prostitute, but the scene is fade-to-black and not explicit. The story is mostly concerned with the aftermath of this type of sexual history on his relationship with Steve/Stein long after Obie’s death. His feelings towards Obie are complicated. On a more conscious, surface-level, he hates him, but underneath that, he also craves his approval in a fucked-up way because Tony is the bastard of a prostitute, and though not his dad, Obie is the closest thing he’s ever had to father. Anyway, if that’s not something you want to read in any capacity, you should probably turn back now.

_May you live in interesting times._

_May you attract the attention of those in authority._

_May you find what you’re looking for._

-The Three “Chinese” Curses

Tony prefers the heat of the caldarium on days such as this, when the weather is wet and sky cloudy during the closing days of summer. Not underneath, of course, where other more-burly slaves sweat and struggle, feeding the furnace that heats the floors near the natural hot springs, but above ground amongst the prettier slaves. He would stick to the edges of the steam room, passing across the main floor to pick up used strigils and offer pots of olive oil to those attending the many patrons of the renovated Roman bath house. Sometimes, a hand would glance over his nude hip, wrap around his wrist. There’d be a smile, an exchange of coin, and Tony would be theirs for the next several hours.

He doesn’t miss it.

Living in Bath, it never got warm enough outside the caldarium and the adjacent hot springs to necessitate removal of his outer woolen tunic. He fiddles with the round brooch at his shoulder, ensuring it doesn’t slip and expose more of his flesh to the elements. He doesn’t own a cappa or cloak for the cold, though Master Obie was so kind as to gift him a fine straw hat to keep the sun out of his eyes the past few summers when he upgraded and directed the maintenance of the bath house’s structure along with the hypocaust and pipes to improve air and water circulation as well as temperature control. Master Obie is very kind, or so he keeps reminding Tony.

“To the tepidarium with you, my boy,” Master Obie tells him presently, his fingers wiggling into the seam of Tony’s tunic to caress the skin of his torso. “We have an important client requesting one of your exclusive massages.”

Tony’s heart sinks. “Is it you?” he asks, his tone flat.

The fingers lightly scrape, inspiring a shudder Master Obie mistakes for one of pleasure. “Such a clever boy you are. You deserve a treat. I have something for you in my private quarters after, hm? If you would do me the honor of joining me this evening, that is.”

It’s not a request.

Tony nods. He’s not sure what Master Obie gets out of the charade, out of pretending this is anything other than it is.

“Excellent. Come away now; I am in dire need of a good massage.”

* * *

It would be pleasant in the tepidarium if not for the expanse of flabby, pale flesh laid out before him. Master Obie may have been a good-looking man. Once. Back before Tony could appreciate it anyway. But he has grown a touch soft in the middle with age and wealth, his belly protruding into a slight paunch, and his skin wrinkled and liver-spotted across his face and exposed arms up over shoulders. Tony pours scented oil over his back, working through the muscles methodically, as he had been taught to do since he was a young boy first brought into this side of the trade. He presses a touch too hard on a mound of muscle over Master Obie’s shoulder, inspiring a pained grunt from the man.

“Careful,” he mutters, eyes flashing over his shoulder in such a way Tony knows he will be paying for any liberties later.

Tony presses his legs together to check the severity of the dull ache along his inner thigh, the scrape of rough cloth against the healing marks on his ass. The bruises had yet to fade from last time.

“Have you heard what happened in Abertawe?” he overhears another nearby patron ask his friend while their respective attendants rub oil down their limbs. “Sacked by those Danish raiders, it was. They declared it Sveinn’s Island. Trying to set it up as a trading post for their lot.”

Tony’s hands are firm and nimble over Obie’s body while his mind travels elsewhere, piqued by news of the outer world.

“Whore’s sons, the lot of them. I can’t stand the brutes. If they were to come here–” the man makes a rude gesture, nearly knocking into the slave girl at his side. “Careful where you stand,” he barks out. She retreats further back, towards his lower end to work over his calves.

“I hear they’re raiding for slaves to sell along the various ports, but the captured goods are always delivered… damaged, or so they say,” – a pause – “We’re too far inland for such concerns.”

“A shame that is. A right shame.”

But the first man sounds annoyed by his friend’s implied supposition that he could defeat these hardened raiders and his near thoughtless belligerence in wishing for their presence to allow such an opportunity. “You wouldn’t be saying that if they got within a stone’s throw of your Eawynn.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“They have wooed women, caring not whether they are already spoken for – noblemen’s daughters even – what with their ridiculous grooming habits. Who needs to bathe every Saturday or change their clothes more often still? Such frivolity and vanity should not be tolerated in a man.”

“Can such a person be called a man?” the second scoffs.

“Not a civilized one, no,” his friend concedes. “But let not their dainty sensibilities fool you. They are nothing but savages and will brutalize anything that crosses their path, no respect for civilized folk.”

“I hear that– Ow!” he kicks out, his foot connecting with the attendant, pushing her off the table. He props himself up on his elbows to glare back at the girl. “I told you to watch it!”

Tony flinches. The girl is new and largely untrained, sold by her father to pay off his debts or so he’s heard. She had cried when she first arrived, but then again, the new ones always did. Tony doesn’t remember crying. He doesn’t remember a time before Master Obie and the bath house, but he supposes that must have been the way with him as well. In time, she will be the same as Tony, the same as any of the others, her tears dried up and long forgotten, sublimated into a hardened shell if she’s lucky. It’s the only way for any of them to survive.

Master Obie moans under the expert pressure of Tony’s hands, his arm hanging over the edge of the table slides up Tony’s thigh, lazily stroking the supple skin there, a taste of what is to come.

His expression carefully blank, Tony captures Master Obie’s wandering arm, tucking it beside his torso to work over his triceps. Let no man say Tony skimps on his duties. He is nothing if not thorough.

* * *

Tony’s earliest memory is Master Obie’s praise.

He thinks he is three, maybe four, and there’s a woman crouched down behind him, murmuring softly and showing him how to draw pictures in the dirt with a sharpened stick. He had just seen the furnace and hypocaust earlier that morning and had been fascinated by the large machine groaning in the pit, drawing what he thought made the most sense for the internal mechanism given its purpose. Master Obie had been passing through, stopped and stared, asking after the design.

The woman clutched Tony closer, her body tense and angular behind him, but when Tony responded open and unguarded, the man’s lip curled into a smile.

_Aren’t you a clever boy?_

* * *

“You’ll always be my clever boy, won’t you, Tony?” Master Obie tells him after, when Tony is waist deep in a wash basin, the bathwater long grown cold. He runs a soft cloth over new bruises in the shape of bitemarks across Tony’s chest, the towel snaking downward to dip into the water, running across the fresh bruises mottled over old.

Tony hisses at the contact. Master Obie is never careful with his body until after, and this – this pantomime of concern, of love – is almost worse than the initial rough touch.

Almost.

“Hm… so very pretty. You were made for this,” he murmurs, pressing into the dark bloom at his hip.

Tony flinches and scoots away.

“I said you were made for this,” Master Obie repeats, dropping the cloth over the edge of the basin to pinch Tony’s jaw and turn it towards him. “Now, aren’t you going to thank me for taking such good care of you?” his tone drops low, becoming dangerous. “You wouldn’t want me to think you’re ungrateful for my… _favor_ , would you?”

Tony’s jaw grinds in the socket where Master Obie digs in, firm and unrelenting.

Tony wants to scream, to break the man’s nose and spit into the split of his face, but he knows better, knows what happens to ungrateful whores. So instead he sucks in a breath; “Thank you, Master,” he states, unable to quite muster the obsequious note in his voice he knows Master Obie prefers. He hopes it’s enough while bracing himself for further punishment still.

There’s a pause, a beat, then “You’re welcome.”

The pressure lifts from his jaw, and Tony’s mouth automatically yawns open then around to check the full range of motion before manually feeling the ache at his joint.

“Now away to bed with you,” Master Obie says, stepping back to stand with some difficulty. “I’ll see you in the morrow.”

Gingerly, Tony gets up, dries off, and drops the tunic over himself again, carrying his outer tunic, and belt with him.

“You forgot this,” Master Obie holds out the brooch, the symbol of his favor he had granted to Tony upon his change in station from common to exclusive whore.

Tony snaps it from his hand then staggers away from Master Obie’s private rooms back to the slave quarters, where he draws back the canvas divider and falls onto his straw-stuffed cot on the floor, utterly exhausted and aching in intimate areas, new and old.

Tony hates him.

 _Would you like an apple, my boy?_ Master Obie whispers from the depths of his memories. Tony had cocked his head at the small fruit, unfamiliar with the treat. He shakes his head, even as he draws closer to the yellow-red skin. _Go on; it’s very sweet,_ he had encouraged him, passing it into the boy’s chubby hands. Tony had taken a tentative bite, before devouring the thing whole, almost biting through the pit itself. It had been the best, first sweet thing Tony had ever tasted, and he wanted more.

Tony _hates_ him.

 _Would you like another?_ Master Obie had offered, holding out a second apple. Tony had nodded, reaching for the fruit this time, hands outstretched.

**Tony hates him.**

He pulls the scratchy woolen blanket up over his head, tucks his head into the cradle of his arm, and cries, soft and silent, only the odd bitten-off hiccup barely detectable if anyone were inclined to listen.

* * *

In the morning, Tony shaves with a bronze straight razor. Master Obie prefers him clean-shaven. It makes him look younger, like less of the man that he is. The women and boys accept hairlessness as a boon in their trade, but the other, burlier slaves who work the furnace sneer at the effort, not liking how the young Master’s Pet lords over them with respect to the inner workings of the bath house. After all, one so pretty should confine himself to the upstairs, to mill about amongst customers and ply his wares, not down here playing at foreman to real men such as them.

“Careful, your highness,” a grizzled man darkened with coal and slick with sweat, a Gaelic slave by the name of Gormghiolla, mocks him. “You might get soot on your tunic, and then however will you show your pretty face in the thermae, wearing soiled linens as you do?”

“Why would that concern him? It’s not like they’ll ever see his clothes. All that matters is the milky skin beneath,” says an Anglo-Saxon known as Wulfric, who had long admired the line of Tony’s shapely calves. “Come on, we’ve got a penny between the two of us. We could split an hour of his time.”

Tony’s nostrils flair in annoyance. “You can’t afford me. Now, back to work with you.”

“Stuck-up bitch,” Wulfric’s lip twists, anger alighting his face. “If the master didn’t favor you so–”

“But he does.”

“For now. But you won’t always be so pretty, and when he tires of you, perhaps he’ll lend you out to the common man for a nominal fee.” He squares his shoulders, drawing up tall to dwarf Tony. “Whores age like milk.”

“And galley slaves don’t age.”

Wulfric wants to challenge him, to knock him down a peg or three, but Gormghiolla stops him, holds him back. “Not now, but our day will come. Soon. He’s nearing the end of his usefulness, and the master will soon discard him. You can see it in the wrinkle around his fine eyes. Too much self-satisfied smirking will do that to you.”

Tony knows they’re trying to inspire self-doubt, to make him question his position, but he also knows Master Obie will never let him go, not so long as he remains essential to the mechanical operations of the bath house. His utility will long outlast his beauty, true, and maybe then, when he is no longer physically desirable, the aching want in his chest for something different, for a better life will recede, and he will find contentment if not peace with his lot in life.

Unfortunately, Tony doesn’t think it likely. He has always been a greedy sort, hungry and yearning. Because there has to be more than this, more than days spent in the underbelly of the bath house resented by other slaves and nights enduring the cruel touch of an old man.

When he had been younger, before Master Obie had singled him out from the brothel slaves as his exclusive whore, Tony had nurtured his own fragile hope that someone kind – perhaps an elderly widow with a soft spot for young men who reminded her of her dead son or an idealistic (but wealthy) scholar – would take a shine to him and purchase his freedom from this place. They would take him home, clean him up, and offer him a fresh start somewhere new where he could do anything, be anyone.

Tony crosses his arms, feeling the burn of the bite marks across his chest before addressing the duo blandly, “You should spend less time gazing into my _fine eyes_ and more time fueling the furnace.”

* * *

It had been a day like any other – one of the nicer ones in the final week of Ƿēodmōnaþ before the festivities of Hāliġmōnaþ during which the Anglo-Saxons of Bath offered sacrifices to the gods in hopes of gaining their favor for the coming annum – when the world ended.

The raiders had descended upon the populace like bees swarming, hitting late in the day with no warning, no mercy, decimating holy sites and butchering any men who stood in their way to crush Bath and bring the city to heel.

…Perhaps Master Obie should have offered up his best spotted calf the year before.

Tony had been in the frigidarium, testing out his new invention – a rudimentary filtration system – long after the bath house had closed for business when chaos erupted. People fleeing the horde had spilled into the foyer, loud and rowdy, trying to shelter in the bath house, before being beset by raiders, few wearing iron helmets but all brandishing shields and carrying some form of weapon: axes and bows, spears and swords.

Tony ducks behind the circular pool. He has nothing to defend himself, save his cylindrical prototype made of soda-lime-silica glass stuffed with layers of wool, sponge, and charcoal. So when a raider rounds the basin, spying Tony and rushing to capture him, Tony breaks the glass against the stone basin, stabbing the man low in his thigh just over the knee.

The man howls, swinging out his shield to strike Tony who throws himself back to avoid it, but the blunted edge glances off Tony’s chin, knocking him hard to the ground. He rolls to his side, avoiding the downswing of an axe, then scuttles backward and up onto his feet. Keeping an eye trained on the hobbled man in pursuit, he swivels his body to run, but in his haste, he barrels into an even larger Viking, nearly bouncing off the man’s chest.

The second raider is half a head taller than Tony and broad, with angry blue eyes, a trimmed beard, and long blond hair swept back into a braid falling halfway down his back. He carries a round shield on his back and an axe at his hip. Before Tony can flee, the man grabs him by the upper left arm. Fueled by adrenaline and sheer desperation, Tony wrenches the brooch from his left shoulder, dropping his outer tunic to the floor. He quickly attempts to bury the sharp tip into the man’s chest but is ultimately thwarted by the chainmail vest he wears.

His captor looks almost amused at the effort. He uses his free hand to twist the paltry weapon out of Tony’s grasp just as the first Viking limps towards them, cursing and shouting, his axe hanging free at his side, knuckles nearly white from his grip on the handle.

Tony tries to escape once again, but the larger man pulls him in, holds him close and steady. There’s a heated exchange of words over his head before the wounded one relents, leaving him in the other’s possession. The victor quickly pats down Tony, now dressed in only his flimsy undertunic and short trousers, to check him for additional weapons before dragging him to one side, intertwining a length of chain that he locks around Tony’s upper limbs and lifting him up and over his shoulder like a particularly-squirmy sack of potatoes. Tony gives him a good kick to the ribs, and the man grunts, smacking him on the ass in warning and tightening one arm across the back of his calves to prevent further damage. Tony struggles further but to no avail. He is unable to neither loosen the man’s grip nor convince him that he is simply not worth the trouble.

Long ago, when he had been young and new (but not innocent, never innocent), he had dreamed of the day he would leave Master Obie’s service. When it wasn’t at the largesse of a generous patron, he had thoughts of making enough in tips to purchase his freedom. Even with the belated realization that the old man will never willingly part with him, still Tony, ever stubborn, ever calculating, had entertained schemes of leaving his old life behind, to never countenance his old master forever after…

And now it would seem that Tony has gotten his wish in the form of a new master.

* * *

Tony may have held no love for Master Obie, but at least the man was predictable. Though resentful of his old life, he had known where he stood. Master Obie needed him, which gave Tony quite a bit of latitude in his position. It will not be the same with the overgrown Viking to whom he now found himself beholden. If Tony is to survive his servitude, he will need to learn how to please his new master’s appetites, to make himself indispensable to the man so he won’t dispose of him too quickly.

Darkness had fallen quickly after the attack, so the raiders bunkered down in Bath proper for the night. The man who Tony deduced must be their leader had taken Obie’s private rooms, which left the slave quarters to the rest of the men alongside their captives. One of the improvements Tony had previously made to their living space was a series of canvas dividers subdividing their individual hovels. It gave him and the other slaves a modicum of privacy as well as the illusion of ownership of their space.

However, it did nothing for sound proofing.

He can hear them – the sounds of others being rough with their spoils – the low grunts and moans overlaid by subdued crying and fruitless begging interspersed with shrieks.

 _The captured goods are always delivered… damaged,_ the anonymous patron had once said.

Tony curls up small on his cot, trying to plug up his ears to drown out the sounds, but he startles when his new master draws back the divider and enters the cramped space, holding a rolled-up mat and blankets tied with a length of rope. Tony scrambles to the far edge of the cot before he can consider that perhaps enticing the man would be the smarter move. The man settles down heavily at the foot of the bed, consequentially blocking the exit. He places his bundle on the floor in front of him next to the cot.

Tony braces himself as the man turns to face him.

“ _Nilim chun tu a ghortu._ _Siodhachan is aimn dom. Cad is ainm duitse?_ ” he says, voice earnest and face full of hope.

Tony blinks. “Um…” Entirely unfamiliar with the language of the Danes, he is unsure of how to respond.

The man’s face falls into disappointment, inspiring fresh waves of fear in Tony. He is already failing his new master, but he can’t fix it if he doesn’t know what is being requested. Fortunately, Tony is no idiot. There are few possibilities of what a man like the raider sitting before him could want from a bath house whore. So slowly, tentatively, Tony reaches out, his palm landing trembling on the man’s knee. He looks up at the man’s face, but instead of the lust he expects, he looks displeased.

He grasps his wrist and gently but firmly returns it to Tony’s lap.

He points to himself. “ _Ek heiti Stein._ ”

But when Tony fails to respond, he repeats “Stein” pounding twice on his chest meaningfully. He then points at Tony. “ _þik_ _?_ ”

_Ah._

Tony points at himself. “Antonius,” he says.

“Ent-ton-yus?”

Tony lightly knocks his chest. “Tony,” he tries again.

The man smiles. “Tuni,” he repeats, pointing at Tony before flipping his fingers back on himself to tap his chest. “Stein.” His fingers return to pat Tony’s shoulder, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Tuni.”

“Glad we could establish our names. Now that the hard part is over, the rest should come easy,” he quips drily. Perhaps it is important to Stein that Tony knows his name well enough to scream it later, when they move on to the main event, he thinks with more than a little fear. Based on the man’s body size, Tony can only guess as to the relative dimensions of his dick, its probable size and heft, and he has nothing to slick the way, to make the experience anything short of horrifying and potentially fatal. Perhaps if he could convince the man to use his mouth tonight, then maybe–

Stein rises to his feet, bringing his groin to Tony’s eye level. But before Tony can react or so much as pantomime an offer, his new owner is pointing at the folded sleeping mat and blankets then indicating a spot opposite his own bedroll and giving short brusque instructions that Tony understands to mean some variation of “You sleep there.”

Wary of upsetting him, Tony watches Stein as he lays out his bed for the night, inches apart from the cot, uncertain whether he understood his instructions correctly. Stein doesn’t seem to disapprove, so Tony slides underneath the woolen sheets, still turned towards the man. He thinks he made a mistake when Stein leans over, but instead of flipping Tony out of the makeshift bed, he only pulls back the blanket to tie up his hands and legs with the rope he had used to keep the bedroll compact, ensuring Tony can’t slip away in the night.

He then settles onto the straw-stuffed cot, promptly falling asleep. Tony doesn’t take his eyes off him, can’t even relax considering his company and the ambient noise. However, when Stein begins to lightly snore, it takes the edge off Tony’s anxiety just a bit. Perhaps Stein is too tired from all the pillaging and general mayhem of the day to use Tony tonight, but he needs a plan (and more importantly supplies) if he is to survive the experience.

* * *

The following day brings more raiders to the bath house. They converge at the natural hot springs where they wash off the grime and blood of the day before and soak their weary muscles, bringing with them their favored captives, beautiful young women and boys both to accompany them. Most are terrified but more subdued than yesterday, quietly weeping as they serve their new masters.

Tony keeps his head down. He attends to Stein, commandeering a clean strigil as well as the best scented oils for his master, while pocketing a flask of olive oil for later. Now that Tony has seen Stein’s dick… he’s glad the man had proven too weary the night before to lay claim to his body. He is going to need time to prepare, to clean and stretch his ass for his new master’s use. He is moderately surprised when Stein grants him the opportunity, indicating Tony should use the facilities as well after he’s done. Tony supposes it’s a practical consideration. After bathing, Stein would rather not sully himself with the filth of his new slave’s unwashed body.

And so Tony disrobes. Stein tries not to stare, but he does keep watch near him, purportedly warding off fellow raiders from his property. Keeping his eyes lowered, Tony rubs oil over his body, using a new strigil to scrape it off along with the dirt and grime. He then pours water over to further cleanse himself of the excess, both uncertain how patient Stein would be with a soak and not wanting to stay naked for longer than necessary considering the company. He then dries off, pulling the undertunic over his head and lacing up his trousers.

When he’s done, Stein leads him back one final time to the slave quarters where he packs up his bedroll, pantomiming that Tony should take anything of value he may need. Tony doesn’t have much, and so he only packs an older undertunic as a sort of cushioning for the oil flask he transfers within as well as a comb made of bone, a bronze razor, and his straw hat… all of his earthly possessions wrapped up compact and weighing barely anything at all. His rounded brooch, the symbol of Master Obie’s favor, is pinned to Stein’s sleeve, outside the chain mail vest. Tony is unlikely to get that back any time soon.

Stein still waits outside the canvas divider, his brow drawn together in confusion. He pulls at his own outer shirt and points at Tony, still clothed in only his undertunic, then his satchel.

“My tunic?” Tony says, a brow quirked up. “Did you not see it fall yesterday? I have not been able to find it, nor do I have another.” He picks at the hem of his sleeve and shakes his head. “It is what it is.”

Stein nods his understanding, then steps aside, taking hold of Tony’s shoulder as he passes to lead him out.

There are bodies still strewn about the foyer, some left where they had fallen while others are being dragged and thrown into piles off to the side by the slaves who used to fuel the furnaces. Tony’s stomach sours, and he tries not to look too hard, lest he see someone he recognizes among the dead, but when he comes upon a familiar figure atop a pile three corpses high, large and liver-spotted, bloated and pale, he can’t help but stop and stare.

It’s Master Obie, his torso slashed and face frozen in terror, mouth yawning wide and eyes open and glassy, turning milky with early decay as flies swarm his corpse around his face and open wounds. Unwittingly, almost unconsciously, Tony takes a step towards his old master, then another and another until the man lies waist-high in front of him, the upper-most layer of a putrid pile of buzzing decay.

Stein comes up behind him. He looks between Tony and Master Obie, grim understanding overshadowing his face. He places a hand on Tony’s shoulder, drawing his attention.

“Faðir?” he asks, his tone sympathetic as he stares at the body.

A familiar laugh rings out. Nearby, Gormghiolla is nearly doubled over. When he composes himself, he replies in heavily-accented Norse with an unmistakable undertone of malicious mirth. Though Tony doesn’t know exactly what had been said, he sees Stein’s face grow dark as he turns back to look down upon his newly-acquired slave, a decidedly displeased tilt to his mouth. The death of his former master, Gormghiolla’s laughter, Stein’s unfair disapproval – all of it – it awakens something inside Tony, anger at the collective injustices of his life and a freeing sort of grief below the complacency, snapping at all the indignities he’s suffered at the hands of the bath house patrons, of Master Obie, and now of the Vikings themselves.

Snarling, Tony’s fingers dart towards Stein’s sleeve, ripping the brooch from his shirt. The raiders supervising body removal move in to stop him, but Stein raises his fist in a signal to hold, to stand back. Tony isn’t even looking at Stein anymore. Blinded by rage, by grief, he ignores him entirely to spin around and bury the brooch in Master Obie’s groin, the body shifting only slightly from the force of the downward strike with a soft _thump_. Just that, no further complaint from the man who owned Tony since the time before memory, who took his body, his self-worth and agency, hollowing everything out and filling him with sickening ‘yes, master,’s and ‘thank you, master’s.

It’s not enough.

Master Obie is dead. He will never hurt Tony again, but the vengeance, much too small and much too late, rings hollow.

It’s not enough.

Tony collapses onto his backside, shuffling back then drawing up his knees to bury his tears in folded arms.

Gormghiolla’s voice, harsh and sharp, cuts through the white noise blaring in his ears.

“Now, no one is left to protect you.”

It’s both a threat and a promise.

“Tuni?” Stein is rubbing circles along his upper back. He’s murmuring something, his voice gruff but soothing. Tony can only understand his name here and there in the muddle and flow of words, but presently, Stein is trying to pull him up.

Tony bats off his touch, rising on his own accord. He wipes his eyes on a sleeve, takes one last look at Master Obie, and straightens out his tunic. Then, he walks out of the bath house unaided, following after his new master without so much as a word.

* * *

With their haul, both in wealth and captives, it takes the raiders well into the evening to load up their ships docked in the River Avon further upstream where the water is deeper.

Before they lead their captives below deck, an overseer fastens iron collars and shackles to each, linking them together to ensure they stay put. Most of the new slaves are women but a few are strapping men good for hard labor, including Gormghiolla and Wulfric from the bath house.

“Must be good business, selling the same goods twice,” Gormghiolla grumbles much too loudly, earning himself a rap to the back of the head from the overseer. He brings his shackled arms up to rub the smarting flesh.

“Look at that,” Wulfric says, his head cocked in Tony’s direction as he and Stein approach the ship. “It looks like his highness will be housed down with us common folk. What say you and me make him feel welcome, hm?”

Tony backs away from the man brandishing the iron collar, his eyes wide and fearful, trained on the duo behind him. If he goes down into the hull with them, he won’t survive the night, and worse yet, he’ll go slow; they’ll make sure of that.

But Stein is there, a stone wall behind him, holding him steady. “Tuni,” he says firmly followed by a string of words that probably meant some variation of ‘Stay still’ or ‘Don’t be difficult.’

“No, Stein,” Tony begs even as the overseer holds his head steady by the hair to slip the collar around his neck and lock it shut. He pulls his head away when the man releases him. “Don’t send me down there! They will kill me, don’t you understand?”

“We won’t kill you,” Wulfric interjects. “You may prefer that outcome, true. Pray to the gods, and mayhap they will grant you the good fortune of a swift death.”

“Stein.” Tony tugs urgently at his sleeve as the shackles come out. “Please, Stein.”

But Stein is looking past him, glaring daggers instead at Wulfric and Gormghiolla in turn, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

He says something to the overseer, who argues back only to be interrupted by Stein once again, his tone stern, brooking no argument. Tony looks between the two and then over at Gormghiolla whose face falls.

The overseer sighs, a grunt of assent, as Stein himself holds Tony’s arms steady, and the man locks a cuff over each of his wrists then feeds the chain through the hole in the collar before shackling an end to each cuff. Tony digs his feet into the dirt, anticipating the pull forward to add him to the growing chain, but instead Stein drags him away from the other captives, up the plank towards the upper deck of the ship where he picks through a pile of poles and canvas, until he identifies his pack. Then, he leads Tony back down towards the river bank where the raiders are making camp. There are a few other captives dotted here and there amongst the Vikings, all pretty young women, scared and weeping softly.

Tony has a pretty good idea as to why they (and by extrapolation, he) were spared addition to the chain gang kept in the ships’ lower deck.

Stein removes the wooden poles from his pack, driving one through a link in Tony’s chain into the ground to keep him captive before constructing what turns out to be the rest of a framework for a tent around his new slave. He finishes the shelter by draping, stretching, and pinning the canvas in place with Tony trapped inside. He doesn’t immediately enter, likely leaving to eat dinner stewing over one of the many bonfires before returning to satisfy _other_ appetites.

Tony must work quickly. He doesn’t know how long he has alone to prepare for the inevitable.

His fingers tremble as he tries to unlace his trousers, only succeeding on the third attempt.

 _Hurry,_ he thinks to himself, _no time to waste._

He considers whether Stein would help him out, test out the stretch of his passage first with fingers before attempting to sheath himself entirely. He seems kind enough so far, and Tony can’t possibly be the first captive he’s selected for such treatment, but then again, how conscientious could a slaver really be? Tony has to be realistic given the facts.

Tony remembers prior clients who liked to hurt him – even Master Obie liked to, despite how he may act outside his quarters – and though one can’t always tell by their outward façade, there’s a good chance Stein also likes it rough. It’s… it’s just something Tony has to get through. But to survive the night, he must do it on his own terms and not give Stein a reason to snap, to hold Tony down by the back of his neck and rip off his clothes, force himself in with too little prep, tearing him up from the inside. Stein is much bigger and stronger than him, and Tony belongs to him now. He can do whatever he wants to his body. He can make him take it, and if Tony fights back, Stein can easily make it hurt. Tony has seen what happens to mouthy slaves who don’t know their place. But if he is soft and sweet, if he prepares both mentally and physically to please his barbaric master and offers himself up pretty as can be, then there’s a chance (slim though it may be) that he will be able to walk in the morrow.

After all, Tony has borne similar treatment his entire life, and he will bear this, too.

And so he drops his trousers and tries to get comfortable. He reorients the slack of his chains so they lie over his stomach rather than between his legs. Reaching over to his satchel, he pulls out the flask of olive oil, popping the cork and pouring some over his palm to slick his fingers then reaching between his legs to warm up his hole. He starts by circling around the pucker with two fingers then slowly tries to push in the tip of his index finger and winces. He’s much too tight, much too tense to open himself up properly. He tells himself to relax, to just let it happen. Worrying about what is to come will only make it hurt more.

Instead, he tries to think of other things: warm baths, soft sheets, and old one-time clients who opened him up slow and gentle, thrusting in lovingly while calling him other names until Tony didn’t have to fake his pleasure, his moans and soft pants. During those times, when he was Alwin, Edward, Harold, other men forbidden and beloved, Tony could almost forget who he was, where he was. Sometimes, when he wasn’t Tony, they’d kiss the back of his neck, nibble along his shoulder blade, make him gasp, feel treasured and valued. Those men were few and far between and stopped altogether when Master Obie claimed exclusive rights over his services, but Tony thinks of them now as he opens himself up on one then two fingers, his dick rising to full mast. Tony feels the heat, that warm tingle expanding into a furnace, rising up in his belly and knows he should stop – sex never felt good after he spilled and would quickly become torturous when a client refused to pull out – so he begins to slow, to leave himself on edge until–

He hears a scream through the canvas that is quickly muffled followed by jeers from the crowd outside.

It’s like a bucket of ice water poured down Tony’s spine, extinguishing any progress he had made. He sits up, looking towards the source of the commotion, growing in volume, new voices adding to the din. He sees nothing, only the firelight filtering through the canvas, leaving everything in the tent awash in a dim glow. He flops down onto his back, dread replacing the warmth that had stirred within him. Belatedly, he recalls Stein’s size during his bath as his fingers drift back towards his hole to add a third, grimacing at the stretch. His dick has also softened, so Tony slides his other hand down to stroke it, trying to give himself something to work with, to show interest he can’t possibly feel. It’s not like he doesn’t find Stein attractive – he is _not_ blind – but the ambient noise reminds him that tonight won’t be an easy experience for him, not that he has a choice in the matter.

He startles when the tent flap flips open and Stein steps through, holding a steaming bowl of stew. Stein stops in his tracks, staring at Tony splayed out before him.

Tony sits up, pointedly nudging the opened flask of olive oil at his feet, leaving it in a prominent place as he flips over to get on his hands and knees. He then scrunches his undertunic up to his armpits (unable to remove it entirely due to the presence of his collar and chains) to present his lubed ass, shiny and loosened for his new master’s pleasure.

There’s a moment where everything is still within the tent. It extends a touch longer than can possibly be comfortable for either party. Tony is almost tempted to look over his shoulder back at his new master, but when the man in question places a hand on his shoulder, Tony flinches and bites back a sob but manages to keep his position. Stein abruptly lets go, but then his hand is back and insistent, gently turning Tony over to face him. Briefly, Tony considers whether his new master wants to fuck face-to-face to gauge his reaction as he hurts him. He never took Stein for a sadist, but he complies, lying on his back with his knees parted, eyes clenched shut and throat bared, shaking as he awaits the inevitable.

He cracks open an eye when Stein fails to touch him further. The man isn’t even looking at his face, his gaze lower and his expression angry. Tony follows his eye-line to the bruises at his hips where Master Obie had held him roughly not three days prior. There are matching bruises in the shape of bite marks across his chest and a few grazing along his inner thighs in multiple layers of various splotchy colors indicating different ages, dark purple over dappled brown and sickly yellow. Stein’s eyes linger on them, and Tony grows nervous. Perhaps it angers him to see evidence of another’s hands on his body. And so, when Stein makes no further movement towards claiming him, Tony sits up to palm Stein’s clothed groin, to distract him from how he has already been used so thoroughly.

Tony’s hands are trembling.

Stein blocks his touch, mumbling a string of words Tony can’t hope to understand. So Tony lies back down and spreads his legs open for the taking. Perhaps Stein wants to be in charge. Some men are like that. They don’t like it when you know what you’re doing. Combined with the bruises, it only reminds them that you’re not as untouched as they would prefer.

But Stein is shaking his head, simplifying his command to a simple “Nei.”

At least that word is close enough for Tony to ascertain the meaning, though he is uncertain whether it’s a rejection of his actions or his body.

Growing visibly frustrated, Stein pulls down Tony’s undertunic to cover his chest down to his flaccid dick then turns to collect a woolen blanket, which he drapes over Tony’s lower half for good measure. He finishes by holding out the bowl of stew to him at arm’s length, jostling it a bit until Tony takes the hint, sits back up, and takes it. Tony curls in around the still-warm bowl, feeling more than a little foolish.

Stein rolls out his own bed opposite Tony. He points to it. “Stein,” he says.

Then he points separately at Tony in his bundle of blankets. “Tuni.”

Okay, so, they’ll be sleeping apart. Again.

Stein strips off his chainmail and outer clothes, folding them up and placing them on the opposite side of his bedroll, away from Tony and outside the range of his chains.

“Tuni stay,” he says in heavily-accented Brittonic.

Tony swivels his head to stare at him.

Encouraged, Stein tries again. “Tuni stay. Out no good. No safe.”

_Right. Okay then._

Tony nods.

Satisfied that he had been understood, Stein points at his bowl. “Tuni eat.”

Tony picks at the contents. It’s good, hearty and delicious, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite.

“Tuni eat,” Stein repeats.

Mechanically, Tony obeys, slowly finishing the bowl and passing the empty vessel to Stein, who leaves the tent to clean it in the nearby river, returning shortly after.

In the interim, Tony had put his trousers back on and now lay in his corner, turned to his side to face the other man’s bedroll, wary of any movement on his part. Stein settles down – “Góða nótt, Tuni,” – and quickly drops to sleep, snoring slightly.

Tony is relieved but confused. He had thought he had his new master figured out, but Stein clearly isn’t looking for a bed partner, so what could he possibly want from Tony? Whatever it is, it is vital that Tony learn his purpose. If he can figure out what Stein wants, what he needs, then he can give it to him, and the man won’t discard him so easily.

Tony thinks of before, when he had dreamed for someone – anyone, really – to sweep through his life and whisk him away from his old home. He had gotten his wish, but at the expense of everything else: his home, his people, even his own sense of purpose and personal security (painful though it had been at the time). And now? Now he has been set adrift, with neither compass nor map and no understanding of what lies before him in the great unknown.

Stein mumbles and turns in his sleep.

Tony will learn how to please him. He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stein first speaks to Tony in Irish Gaelic and is disappointed when Tony doesn’t understand because Stein was under the impression that everyone in the British Isles spoke Irish. He then switches to Old Norse, because if it’s not going to benefit him, he’s not going to struggle through a language he barely remembers.
> 
> ‘Nilim chun tu a ghortu. Siodhachan is aimn dom. Cad is ainm duitse?’ means ‘I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Siodhachan (pronounced Shee-ya-han). What’s your name?’ in Irish Gaelic. 
> 
> ‘Ek heiti Stein’ means ‘My name’s Stein’ in Old Norse.
> 
> ‘Faðir’ means Father. Although that seems like it should be close enough to English for Tony to pick up, when I looked it up, it seems that at the time, the Bretons’ word for father was “Tad” which is similar to the modern Dad. I’m not a linguist but English is a bastard language with a lot of loan words.
> 
> ‘Góða nótt’ is ‘Good night’ in Old Norse.
> 
> A strigil is a personal grooming tool used to scrape off oil from the body.
> 
> A hypocaust is an early central heating system system that existed in a lot of Roman bath houses. The floors are hollow (and sometimes walls have pipes) and hot air is pushed through it to produce a sort of ambient heat in the room. 
> 
> A cappa is a chaperon, a hooded cape worn over the shoulders for cold weather.
> 
> Anglo-Saxons called August Ƿēodmōnaþ or ‘Grass/Weed Month’ and September Hāliġmōnaþ or ‘Holy Month.’


	2. Captivated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stein grows frustrated when Tuni proves to be a particularly stupid thrall. This is what he gets for choosing beauty over age and experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will alternate third-person narration between the characters. This chapter is from Stein’s POV.
> 
> Steve’s Norse name is Stein (meaning stone or small rock), but his mother, who was a Gaelic woman abducted from the British Isles, called him the Gaelic name Siodhachan (pronounced Shee-ya-han, meaning “little peaceful one”). As a child, Stein was pretty much pre-serum Steve. He was small and kind of sickly. Normally, unwanted, unhealthy, and/or deformed babies are put outside by their fathers and exposed to the elements to die, but it is implied that Stein was not his parents’ first child. His elder siblings were all born the same way, and his father, Joar, put them out. But when it became clear that none of their babies would be as strong as he’d prefer, he kept Stein by “placing him on his knee,” half expecting him to die in childhood.

**Seventeen Years Earlier**

Siodhachan had never had a brother. He had asked his mother for one. Once. Just once and never again. She had cried, her eyes red and puffy and tears falling down her face as her shoulders shook. He had apologized profusely, said he was only funnin’ her. He didn’t really mean it. Honest. So, please stop crying. Please stop.

Siodhachan had never had a brother.

So on the day Balki came to live with them, he had quivered with excitement and anticipation. It was an arrangement, he learns later – Balki had several siblings back home in his longhouse, and so his parents had fostered him out to Joar, sending a tidy sum for his upkeep along with him, which allowed Joar to afford a better forge for his smithy – but at the time, Siodhachan looked at Balki and thought, _Finally._

They had become fast friends, brothers in spirit if not by blood.

Siodhachan considers his pieces on the _tafl_ board as Balki sit across from him, fingers forming a steeple over his mouth. His hand hovers over pieces as the boy watches Balki, looking for some tell – a twitch, a blink – that may give away the other boy’s game. His hand lands on a piece, advancing it forward.

Balki groans but gamely plays through to a loss. “Again, Stein? How do you always manage to do that?”

“You beat me in wrestling and swordplay every time. It’s only fair I get tafl games.”

They reset the board. “I suppose it’s only right you’re strong of mind,” Balki grumbles. _Especially when you are so weak of body,_ he does not say, not wanting to hurt his foster brother.

Siodhachan looks up at his companion, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Balki is looking past him, out towards the stables where his father’s thralls, Wallanda and her son Samr the Black, tend to the family pigs. Unlike his Ma, the iron collars around their necks are barely visible against their dark skin.

“Ma says they came from far away, from over the seas like her,” he tells Balki, sorting out his black pieces from the white and slotting them into the starting position.

Balki’s brow crinkles in confusion. “But your mother is fair.”

“They come from a different land where some of the people are just real dark and their hair grows thick and curly like moss,” he explains. It’s rare in their village with the vast majority of thralls originating from the Eastern Slavic or Western Gaelic tribes. As a result, it is not unusual for outsiders to stare at Joar’s domestics.

“Oh,” Balki chews his lips for a spell before divulging, “Father says Samr the Black was born here. Everyone was wondering what he’d come out looking like, but… You know how sometimes you cross a black horse with a red one, and about half the time, the foal comes out black? Father says it must be the same for us.”

“…What?”

“Never you mind. Another round?” Balki offers, taking his first turn.

* * *

Siodhachan never liked Samr the Black. The older boy was always picking on him, though he didn’t dare try anything in Joar’s presence for fear of reprisals. Nor did Siodhachan ever cry to his father about any conflicts he had with Samr, not since the first time when Joar had whipped Samr until both boys were begging him to stop.

“You split wood like a girl,” Samr would say when both are tasked to collect firewood for the forge while Joar showed Balki the basics of smithing. Siodhachan would try, but his pile was always less than half the size of Samr, and he frequently had to take breaks, tiring much easier than the other boy.

And so, Samr would sigh loudly and steal some wood from Siodhachan’s pile to split – _If I must wait for you, I will waste the entire day_ – making a show of how much more competent and strong he is.

“Hold her steady,” Samr would bark as the younger boy struggled with a piglet. “Steady, I say. You know what. Step aside; I’ll do it. You do not have the strength to wrangle one on your own.”

Siodhachan knew better than to tattle to his father. Instead he had complained to his mother, who promised to talk to Wallanda about it, and to their credit, Samr did stop.

For a while.

Siodhachan had tripped, dropping the bucket of water he had carried from the river. Samr had made a comment about how clumsy he was, like a left-footed dullard who had fallen into the elderberry wine and decided to drink his way out.

“That’s it!” Siodhachan had screamed, throwing the now-empty bucket down and facing Samr. “You are a serpent-tongued bastard, a vulture that swoops down on decent folk when they’re at their lowest to peck at their wounds.”

And now it’s Samr who is offended. “Wounds, you say? What do you know of suffering? You don’t know how lucky you are, you pampered ass.”

Siodhachan strikes him then, clean on the chin just like Balki had showed him when he taught him how to fight, but in quick succession, there’s a shout, and his mother is boxing his ear, pulling him away, while Wallanda is holding back Samr who is screaming obscenities at him.

Ma doesn’t release his ear until they clear across the courtyard, on the far side of the stables. When she finally lets go, Siodhachan rubs at the residual ache, his face pinched with righteous anger.

“I want you to listen to me, Siodhachan. You will listen, and you listen good,” she says in her thick brogue, so none can drop eaves on their conversation. “If you be punchin’ down, that’s not being a man; that’s being a bully.”

“Samr is bigger than me!” he protests, switching seamlessly to her native Gaelic. How could his mother be blind to the fact that not only is Samr bigger, but he’s also older and much stronger? It isn’t fair. It isn’t–

“But he cannot strike the master’s son,” she tells him.

Siodhachan is quiet at that. His mother speaks true, but “I hear tell he’s Joarson as well.”

“Who be telling you that?”

“It is true, isn’t it?”

“…Yes, he is your brother sure,” his mother confirms, her voice gone suspiciously quiet.

But the confirmation only confuses him further. “Then why does he not live in the main house? Balki and Astrid, Inge and Runa all live in their father’s main house alongside their mothers. Why do Samr and his Ma sleep in the stables together with the pigs?”

It didn’t make any sense to the young boy.

His mother smoothes out his hair and licks her thumb to rub out the dirt mark on his cheek. “Your father did not grant them the same privileges you enjoy. All of us – Samr, his Ma, and myself included – are thralls still, whereas you are his son, his blood and heir acknowledged.” She pauses, looking into her son’s big blue eyes. “And it would disappoint me gravely, Siodhachan, if you be fixing turn out like your father.”

He wiggles a toe in the earthen floor, his eyes downcast. “…I’m sorry, Mamaí.”

She embraces him, drawing him close to her bosom. “There is another more deserving of your apology.”

Siodhachan nods. “Yes,” he agrees, his voice small.

“Now run along and make amends with your brother now.”

* * *

He finds Samr in a tree. He isn’t hiding, Samr would insist. It’s a test of strength, endurance, and agility – things Siodhachan severely lacks, being undersized for his age and sickly to boot.

“Samr, can you come down?” Siodhachan calls out from below. “I would like to talk to you.”

But Samr is in one of his contrary moods. “Why don’t you come up then? The view is better from here.”

“I cannot climb.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you from such a distance. I’m touching the sky now,” he declares, reaching out into the blue expanse. “You know us fatherless vultures like to perch high. All the better to see the rotted leavings of decent folks like yourself.”

Okay, perhaps Siodhachan deserved that, and if he had been any other boy, he’d let it go, return home, wait for Samr to come back while he busied himself with other things.

Siodhachan is not like other boys.

He tries to climb up the knobbly knots of the tree to reach the first branch, slipping on the first few tries before hanging by wet noodle arms from the lowest branch. He tries to use his feet to climb up, to gain more leverage on the branch, but he’s not strong enough, falling into the pile of leaves below and getting the wind knocked out of him. He lies there, on his back for several minutes, his breathing haggard, before rising to a wobbly stance to try again from the beginning. He claws at the knots of the tree, trying to reach the same branch as before.

“What are you doing?” Samr asks, sounding annoyed.

“Going up there,” Siodhachan replies, hand outstretched for the branch before stumbling down once again. He gets back up.

“…Why?”

“Because that’s where you are, and I want to talk to you.” He grasps the knotted stub once again. Third time has to be a charm.

“Stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Siodhachan is not one to be deterred by such considerations. “I can do this all day.”

“Joar will tan my hide if you get hurt.”

He stops, considers that perhaps Samr is correct, then sits at the base of the tree, trying to get comfortable in a bed of dry leaves. He picks up one and follows the main veins with the tip of his finger. “Well, I’m not leaving until I say my peace. You have to come down _eventually_. Everyone grows hungry given long enough.”

Samr drops to the ground beside Siodhachan, startling him. “All right, I’m here. Out with it.”

So he stands up, looks his brother in the eye, and says, “I wanted to say I’m sorry, Samr. I should not have said what I said, nor did what I did. It was wrong of me.”

Samr blinks, cants his head to the side as if trying to ascertain the boy’s angle in approaching him thusly. “All right, I don’t get it. Is this a joke? Because it’s a rather poor one.”

“I’m sorry,” Siodhachan repeats. “I said some things and struck you. I shouldn’t have done either. Not to you.”

Samr’s hand shoots out, feeling the boy’s forehead. “Strange. You do not seem ill.”

He sighs. “Have I really been so terrible that an apology must mean I am on death’s doorstep?”

“It would explain it surely. You wouldn’t be the first to make peace with your fellow man before an untimely death.”

“Well, I’m not dying. I just came to apologize because I was wrong… and I wanted to ask if you wanted to come down to the lake for a swim.”

Samr fingers the iron ring of his collar. “…That’s not very nice.”

Siodhachan winces at his faux pas. “We can get that off with the right tools. Just for a bit,” he offers, but Samr clearly doesn’t trust the peace offering for what it is. “I’m being serious. Me and Balki are supposed to go after the mid-day meal. So, you coming or not?”

He considers it for a moment then: “All right.”

* * *

**Present Day**

In the morning, Stein leaves to head to the river, returning soon after with a large basin of water. He then proceeds to take down and repack his tent, freeing Tuni to roll up their bedding. Unfortunately, his new thrall is not particularly proficient at the chore, and so when he presents the much-too-large and loose pile to Stein, the man sighs, fluffs out the bedding once again and re-rolls everything, using his knee to compact the blankets and mat much tighter than Tuni had before adding them to the pile containing his collapsed tent.

He’ll have to show Tuni his new duties, the task made much harder due to the language barrier between them. Having not traveled previously, Stein had thought everyone in the British Isles spoke Gaelic like his mother, but that is clearly not the case. Truth told, he hadn’t even been on the market for a thrall, not really anyway. He had just heard of a ship leaving outbound to the lands across the sea and thought… Well, it didn’t matter what he had thought. It was a silly notion sprung from a futile hope. He had no idea where to start his search, and in the end, he hadn’t even landed in the right area anyway.

Acquiring Tuni had been a split-second decision, and now, he is saddled with a pretty (but under-dressed) thrall looking up at him with wide eyes like he’s going to… like he will…

And so, Stein removes his undertunic. He washes his face in the basin, scrubbing at his beard and slicking his hair back and over his scalp. He hands his comb to Tuni, then sits in front of him, motioning towards his hair. Tuni lived and worked in a bath house after all; he must be proficient in grooming at the very least (among _other_ things Stein tries not to think about). Tuni takes the hint, sliding the teeth through Stein’s long tresses, carefully working out the knots and combing it smooth before re-braiding the mane as Stein had worn it the day before. Once finished, Stein palms his hair, finding it acceptable before donning his clothing. He takes out a smaller comb to do his beard.

Tuni stands before him, uncertain what to do now that his services are no longer needed, so Stein tips his chin towards the basin.

“Wash, Tuni,” he says, resolving to use only short, easy instructions until such a time his new thrall can learn the language. When Tuni doesn’t move, Stein pockets his comb, walking over to lift the basin up to him.

“Wash,” he repeats, sloshing the water a bit.

Slowly, Tuni dips his hands inside, looking up at Stein to make sure he is doing the right thing before splashing his face and running his hands over this hair to wet it. He similarly fixes his hair, combing back the strands and shaking off excess water until it’s tousled but clean. Before Tuni can return his comb to his satchel, Stein takes it, trying to give him a neat left-sided part, but Tuni is already undoing his effort not five minutes later, absentmindedly sweeping his fingers through his hair as he packs up his own belongings, careful to wrap the olive oil from the night before in his spare undertunic.

Stein tries not to think of last night, when Tuni had laid bare on the mat, legs parted wide and inviting. It was wrong, Stein knew. Tuni hadn’t wanted it; he had been so scared, his eyes closed and knees trembling, the bruises dark against his skin in suggestive places. He must have heard the others outside. Stein hadn’t liked the public display, had gotten a share of the stew and left to feed his thrall soon as he was able, but Tuni must have heard, even if he didn’t see. Stein wonders if that’s how his mother had been back when–

He dumps out the water, packing the basin with the rest of his belongings then strapping it to his back and taking Tuni’s chains in the other hand to lead him back towards the ship.

But the closer they get to the ship, the more Tuni fidgets, pulls back on his chains. He’s shaking his head, chattering away in an insistent though pleading tone. Stein may not understand the words, but he recognizes the tone of voice as one of fear.

“Tuni, no. Stop it,” he tells him, trying to drag him forward before ultimately wrapping an arm around his waist and pushing him bodily ahead.

“He seems more trouble than he’s worth,” a fellow Viking known as Arne comments, coming up from behind. He gives Tuni an appraising look, only for the youth to shrink closer to Stein. “You sure you want that one? There is many a pretty maid in the hull; I’m sure you will be able to work out a trade for a more… _biddable_ thrall.”

“I’m certain. This one will do for my purposes,” Stein scoots him forward, and this time, Tuni obeys, stumbling ahead several steps before resuming a halted stride, inadvertently giving Arne a good view of his ass swaying under his thin undertunic.

“That good, is he?”

Stein does not dignify that with a response, instead remarking, “Do you not have your own spoils to load? I do not recall asking for your help with mine.”

Because that’s what Tuni is. His. And Arne would do well to remember it.

“I am only saying–”

“And I am not asking,” Stein states, his decision final.

They are almost to the plank when Tuni tugs at Stein’s chain mail, his eyes large and fearful. He’s pointing at the slaves being loaded into the lower decks and shaking his head once again, blathering all the while. Stein remembers Tuni’s fears from the prior night, how Tuni would rather lie with him despite his trepidation than spend a night below deck with those other larger slaves from the bath house. And so, he tries to calm Tuni like a spooked stallion.

“Be not afraid, Tuni,” he murmurs low, rubbing the thrall’s opposite shoulder while knowing Tuni likely cannot understand his words. “You will be safe with me. I’ll ensure it.”

So Stein requests and is granted permission to keep his new thrall above-board and close as long as Tuni keeps out of the way, same as any captive destined to be a wife or concubine. It’s unusual, certainly, but Tuni wouldn’t be the first male thrall to be kept as such by a Viking (though most who do so already have a wife at home and perhaps some children to keep her company, unlike Stein).

Tuni seemed compliant enough after all; how hard could it be to mind him on the journey home?

* * *

The problems start small at first.

Firstly, Tuni doesn’t have much in the way of real clothing, and what he has is rather shabby and threadbare, which presents a two-prong problem:

(1) The other raiders can see the pleasing form of his body with several making more than one off-color comment, and

(2) Tuni is cold almost constantly; the sea air not doing him any favors. At night, when Stein and Tuni are forced together into tight quarters, Stein tucks him close and a shivering Tuni seems to welcome the contact, if only to share in his warmth. Occasionally, Stein awakens with his erection pressed against Tuni’s thigh and the man unnaturally still and wary, his face downturned and eyes watching him from under long lashes. Stein simply rolls out, pretends nothing untoward has happened, then goes about his day. Tuni seems conflicted, wary of his proximity yet needing his warmth through the frigid nights.

And so, Stein lends him his extra kyrtill, which by virtue of being overlarge for Tuni’s size just seems to swallow him up entirely. Tuni rolls up the sleeves to try to make it work, but he might as well be wearing a blanket for how well the ensemble fit his frame. Still, Stein supposes it is better than leaving him to wander about in his underwear.

Secondly, having never been on a boat before, Tuni staggers across the galley riding out the natural pitch and roll of the boat before developing his sea legs, and even then, he’s sick for much of the twelve-day journey, unable to keep much down. Stein tries to get him to focus on the horizon, to help him stabilize. Eventually, Tuni comprehends his directions, staring out miserably over the bow though no longer vomiting.

But perhaps the largest, most glaring issue is that Tuni is not particularly intelligent and as such, is functionally-useless as a thrall.

When they had first docked on land a couple days later for a wash and meal shared around the fire, Tuni had done well enough with the first, but near killed him with the latter.

They had gone into the surrounding wood to forage. Stein had collected the normal things he had recognized as edible: a few crabapples, some wild plums, a smattering of walnuts and hazelnuts. Tuni had foraged poisonous berries that turn one’s stomach and long-stemmed, pointy-capped mushrooms liable to drive a man insane with uncontrollable giggling. Stein had tossed them out, but Tuni had protested, tugging at his chains and gathering more mushrooms for their evening stew.

“No, Tuni. Bad. Do not eat,” he said, slapping it out of Tuni’s hands a second time.

It turns out that Tuni can be quite stubborn, because when they return, he sneaks a couple mushrooms he had slipped into his sleeve into the stew at the very end, trying to stir it in before Stein can notice.

Stein notices.

He curses, fishes them out, but then thinks better of it, throwing out the whole pot, scrubbing it out in the river, and cooking once again, annoyed at the waste.

“Sit, Tuni,” he orders sternly, pushing down on the thrall’s shoulders until he takes a seat outside of tampering distance of the iron cauldron. “Do not test me right now.” He checks him for more mushrooms and berries, finding none.

Stein wants to punish Tuni for almost poisoning him, but one look into those wide dumb brown eyes, and he can’t muster up the resolve to do anything about it beyond a stern talking-to Tuni is hopelessly unlikely to understand anyway.

Really, this is the natural consequence of Stein’s own error in judgment. It’s not Tuni’s fault he’s slow-witted. The pretty ones sometimes are, and it’s on Stein for choosing beauty and fight over experience and age. He could have picked a sweet but wizened old crone to manage his household affairs, and no one would have fought him over it, either, but no. In the spur of the moment, looking at that fierce little spitfire who somehow managed to hobble a fellow raider (though Stein is beginning to suspect dumb luck as the true culprit), he just had to listen to his cock, and now he must reap the consequences without any of the benefits.

It doesn’t get much better during subsequent landings. Tuni isn’t allowed to forage anymore, and even then, he can barely cook, and it takes him twice as long as some of the female thralls to do menial tasks, like the washing-up and basic laundering. Really, it would be faster if Stein did it all.

He stares a little too hard at the man and thinks of what anyone would want with such a worthless slave.

But then Tuni crouches down to pick at the fire with a stick, collapsing the kindling to send up a burst of embers. The cloth bunches up behind his knees, revealing the tantalizing curve of his ass.

Considering where he found Tuni and the initial state of his body, the man must have been a pleasure slave in his former life. The only time Tuni displays any level of competence is in assisting Stein’s daily grooming and attending his weekly bath. He must be unused to the other domestic, non-sexual labors his new master requires of him as of late.

Stein isn’t proud of it, but sometimes, he allows himself to think about what it would be like to indulge in something Tuni might be a little more used to and thus proficient in. What would it be like to have those milky thighs nude and spread over his lap, to caress the thrall’s back and murmur assurances into his neck as he slowly sank into that pliant body?

But then he recalls the bruises, a patchwork of abuse pressed into Tuni’s body. He remembers how scared Tuni had been that first night in his tent, surrounded by the sounds of the horde outside enjoying their spoils heightening his distress. Tuni had known how to prepare, but he had been tense, too fearful for it to have been pleasurable for him had Stein taken what he was offering. Stein couldn’t then, and he can’t now, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t desire Tuni nor does it preclude a little fantasizing now and again.

Sometimes, when he leaves Tuni near the fire to head out into the surrounding forest for more fuel – a task he has done since the first time Tuni returned with sodden twigs – Stein takes a minute to himself to unlace his trousers and pull out his cock, stroking it to the memory of Tuni naked below him, but instead of chains and trembling terror, he imagines ecstasy. In his mind’s eye, Tuni reaches out for him, slipping his hands under his tunic, feeling along old scars and kissing their healed edges. He gladly takes Stein into himself, his breathing gone ragged and breathy, whispering words he can’t possibly know, dirty disgraceful things that would make a maiden blush. Stein would push in softly at first, quickening his pace, fucking into Tuni harder and harder as the thrall urges him on until–

When Stein comes, he feels relief but also a deep sense of shame. What would Tuni think of him if he knew, if he could see the thoughts tumbling through Stein’s consciousness? And so, he tucks himself back in, rinses off his hands in a nearby stream, and finishes collecting dry wood for the fire before returning to the thrall’s side.

There’s a jumble of words, soothing and rhythmic, spilling out of Tuni as he stirs the stew, failing to scrape the bottom on each pass of the ladle, thereby allowing it to get only slightly scorched at the bottom.

“Sit, Tuni,” Stein says brusquely, pointing at a spot away from the fire and likely-disastrous supper.

Tuni falls silent and obeys. Stein lifts the ladle to his lips and tastes its contents – bland and burnt, as always. He sighs and looks over at Tuni, who fidgets under his gaze.

Whatever is Stein going to do with him?

* * *

They’re back on the ship, and Stein has borrowed a rudimentary sewing kit from one of the others, which he hands to Tuni to fix his kyrtill, tailor it down for his svelte form. It’s also a test; perhaps Tuni has hidden talents outside of the obvious skill set for a former brothel prostitute.

No such luck.

Tuni tries, but even from a distance, Stein can see that the stitch is crooked and his portioning of the excess fabric uneven as he attempts to sew in the sides for a better fit. Perhaps Nott or one of Balki’s female slaves can help him modify the garment later. They’ll have to undo all his stitching, but there’s fabric enough to fix it, considering Stein didn’t give him anything to cut the cloth smaller (not that he would, he is not made of clothing for Tuni to ruin).

Arne comes up alongside Stein, observing his hapless thrall. “His needlework is rather poor,” he comments.

Stein hums his agreement, not wanting to engage further in a conversation about Tuni’s many faults. He knows he chose poorly; no need to rub salt in the wound.

“And you’ve been quiet every night,” he continues. “No repeat of the first?”

Stein only glares at Arne in warning, not liking the insinuation.

“I wonder what use have you of a pleasure slave you never touch? Angling for variety and hoping the missus won’t begrudge you a male bed warmer, are you?” he guesses. Stein tries to ignore him, but the man fails to take the hint. “Well, I say women are jealous of both, and if you are looking to stave off divorce and ruin, you best enjoy the man now, milk every last drop of pleasure you can from his flesh while still leaving him serviceable after, then sell him once we hit port. We won’t be passing through Dublin this way round, but he can fetch quite a price in the markets of Hedeby,” Arne advises, clapping Stein on the shoulder.

Stein shrugs him off. “I do not aim to sell him. I could use the help back home,” he says, watching as Tuni’s shoulders tense and his needle stills momentarily before resuming. “A man should not milk his own cows.”

But now Arne’s eyes practically sparkle. He can spot a bargain, one that will benefit both parties. “Well then, you do not require one so fair for such work. And if you care not for his beauty, I could trade you one of mine for him. I have a woman in mind, a real workhorse in the kitchen she is, older but skilled in domestics and makes the best stew you ever did ate; she’d be a boon to your household. While that one?” He points at Tuni. Tuni freezes, clearly afraid now that he has been singled out. “He can bare boil a pot of water without burning the contents. What say you?”

Tuni may not understand their conversation, but any attention from the other raiders always puts the poor youth on edge. Absentmindedly, he pushes the needle through the thick cloth, pricking his finger with a small yelp and sticking it into his mouth to suck. He looks up at Stein then quickly lowers his eyes, trying to concentrate on the uneven stitch, his shoulders drawn up once again as he tries to curl in small around his project.

“I am not trading him either. He is mine,” Stein states, his tone dangerous, his demeanor clearly annoyed.

Arne huffs, looking displeased. “…I guess whatever _arrangement_ you have with your wife is no man’s business but your own. But ensure she is full of child before she takes her turn with him. No point raising a thrall’s shortwit brat.”

Retaliation is swift. The accusation ringing in his ears, Stein jumps to his feet, drawing his fist back and swinging at Arne using the full force of his body, connecting with his jaw to nearly knock him to the deck.

“Get up,” he commands him, his tone incensed. “Get up, you maggot-mouthed hearthfire idiot!”

“You argr bastard!” Arne is up on his feet, returning the blow that Stein manages to block, but before it can erupt into a full-on fight, others intervene, working to separate the two.

“Break it up!” the captain of their voyage shouts. Stein and Arne still at opposite ends of the deck. “Now what has happened here?”

Stein is the first to respond. He knows his audience, most being low-class men who could not secure a wife among the freewomen of their homelands. “How many among us are children of thralls, risen up to our station by the grace of our free fathers?” he points out. “He insulted the honor of my house, besmirched my mother and myself both, questioning the wisdom of my legitimacy. And then went further to denigrate my manhood. What man would I be if I did nothing to answer him?”

“I heard the insult,” one declares.

“As did I,” confirms another.

A true Viking, Arne is not one to back down from his word. “I meant it true. He spends all his time attending to that new thrall of his, treating him as if he were his lady fair to be courted and coddled.”

That inspires a grumbling of agreement through all those assembled. No one had wanted to say anything – a man’s business is his own – but they had noticed the favor Stein had bestowed upon the youth seemed equal to others looking to woo their female captives to concubinage.

But Arne is not done, having one last allegation to levy against his rival, his most severe yet. “And though he is free to do with his thrall what he desires, never has he taken him where others can hear who plays the stallion and who the mare. Dare I say, that it is because he receives rather than gives.”

Stein surges forward, but is stopped by others wishing to contain any damage to the ship, so instead he argues, “I only aim to teach him his domestic duties and ensure he is well enough to do them once we land. You accuse me of _ergi_ when you have asked after him the day we left Bath and after. Do not deny that you have wanted him for yourself since you laid eyes on him,” he spits out, wanting to get his hands on the man but settling for words instead. “I will not suffer you sullying my honest-earned spoils with your diseased cock.”

“Let us settle this then. Trial by combat,” Arne challenges him. “A _holmgang_ three days hence, when we next make port. We will find an island for the occasion.”

Stein nods, baring his teeth at Arne. “I look forward to it.”

“When I win, keep your silver. I will settle for the thrall,” he wave in Tuni’s direction, who visibly pales. “He cannot be worth more than two marks.”

But Stein isn’t having it. “ _If_ you win, you will get the standard three marks from my share of the silver plunder. No more, no less,” he backs up to conceal Tuni from the man’s view, “but first you must win.”

* * *

Tuni is upset with him.

For the next three nights, Tuni curls up close as he can to the side of the ship, as far away as he can get from Stein in their makeshift bed (which admittedly isn’t far, but enough to register his complaint). During the day, he alternates between pointedly ignoring Stein and mumbling things that turn the heads of some of the other captives on deck, who look between the two of them in alarm. Stein knows Tuni is likely speaking out of turn, but what is he going to do about it? Shut Tuni up? Pantomime a demand for an apology he cannot understand for an insult of which he is ignorant? It is just something he has to let go of until his thrall learns Norse, though that may take a while considering how thick Tuni is.

He even catches that bath house slave riling up Tuni a few times.

Stein steps between the two of them. “What are you telling him?” he asks, knowing the man is bilingual.

“There’s no crime in two old friends suffering dire circumstances catching up here and there,” he replies smoothly. “He is upset; I was only comforting him with musings on his future life in… Hedeby, is it?”

Tuni stays mum, but his eyes flash with futile anger.

“I’ve never been, you know. Sold out of Dublin first, I was,” the other thrall continues. “I am sure he will be quite popular there.”

Stein is not stupid. He knows a threat when he hears one. “Stay away from him. I do not want to hear you or your friend speak to him the rest of the journey. Your master will do with you what he will, but Tuni is mine.”

“For now.”

Stein cannot strike him, no matter how much he may want to. The man is in chains and a thrall; it wouldn’t be a fair fight. “Go,” he commands, and this time, the slave listens.

He turns to Tuni next. “Do not listen to him,” he tells him, but Tuni only crosses his arms and looks down, muttering a few words that sound disingenuous even if Stein cannot comprehend their meaning.

Stein clasps his shoulders at arm’s length. “I will not sell you,” he reiterates, guessing the source of his worry, but Tuni only shakes his head and looks over the side to focus on the horizon.

* * *

On the day of the _holmgang_ , the crew docks at a small island and set out the sewn animal hide measuring approximately three meters square, staking it at the corners to lay flat, delineating the borders of combat. The echoes of prior duels are splashed across the top in dark stains. The rules are simple. Each brings three shields and exchange blows one at a time. He who draws first blood is the victor. Stepping outside the border is forfeit. Running is cowardice.

Stein had left Tuni on the ship, where each man kept their human and silver spoils to be supervised by a trusted neutral party. Tuni had tugged on Stein’s kyrtill before he left, rumbling out a short phrase that could either mean something along the lines of “Good luck; come back safe,” if Tuni was feeling charitable, or “Fuck off; I hope he splits your head open,” if he was feeling less so.

Stein chooses to be an optimist. “Worry not, Tuni. I will return.”

And so he stood opposite Arne, his shield up and axe at the ready. Stein strikes first as the challenged party, thumping against Arne’s shield with all his might, splitting the wood clean in two. Arne returns volley, smashing through Stein’s first shield. Arne’s second shield is thicker and made of a harder wood, taking multiple blows to split, while Arne manages to plow through the rest of Stein’s. Arne’s second shield is still useable, perhaps one good hit left before it splits, but Stein is out of shields and will have to defend himself best he can at Arne’s next volley. Even the smallest cut will leave him the loser in their contest, forcing him to hand over three marks and suffer the ignominy of Arne being considered correct in his insults.

“When I kill you, I will take that pretty thrall of yours, use him well, then sell him to low servitude in the seediest brothel of Hedeby,” Arne goads him.

Stein’s temper flares, but so too, does his cunning nature. Arne’s shield is frayed, the wood almost splintered but considered serviceable, a testament to the man’s arrogance. Stein aims his final blow against the groove he has already hacked through, throwing his body into it, his axe splitting through the wood and biting into Arne’s forearm. Arne screams as his blood drips on to the animal hide below, ending the contest in Stein’s favor. 

Arne is about to retaliate when the captain intervenes, forcing them apart.

“Stein the Longhair has won on this day. Arne Ulfson, you must pay him his due to restore your honor: three marks of silver in compensation of the slight.”

Arne knows better than to argue the results of a _holmgang_ , so when they return to the ship, the captain weighs out the correct sum in jewelry and hack silver from Arne’s share of the plunder to hand to Stein with Tuni overlooking the curious exchange.

* * *

Later that night, Tuni slips in next to Stein. He’s rigid as a board, but slowly, he turns over and curls into his master, wrapping his arms loosely around Stein’s waist and tucking his head into his chest, his feet dangling under the larger man’s. Stein understands it as a sort of forgiveness (for what, he has no clue), but he returns the embrace nonetheless, burying his nose in the top of Tuni’s head and drifting off to sleep with the gentle rocking of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Stein’s background: I knew I wanted to include Sam on Steve’s side of things, but I thought transforming a Black American character into a Viking that is more-or-less accepting of slavery was probably a horribly insensitive idea, so I wrote Sam as a (former) slave himself to highlight another aspect of Viking culture, namely the fate of illegitimate children who weren’t acknowledged by their Viking fathers. 
> 
> Basically, both sons and daughters could inherit from their parents, though sons were favored. Illegitimate children of slave women and concubines could receive inheritance, but this was very little unless their Viking fathers legally adopted them. In this story, Samr and Stein are half-brothers with Samr’s mother being a Black Moor slave from the Iberian Peninsula. It endlessly irked Joar that Samr was born strong while all his white children by his Gaelic slave Saraidh were born weak, and he would often take out his frustrations on Samr. Joar chose to legally adopt Stein but didn’t acknowledge Samr. Samr and Stein had a strained relationship as children because of the difference in their father’s favor (Stein looked down on Samr, Samr was a little jealous that Stein was the golden son despite how much better Samr was in nearly every aspect that mattered to a Viking, and both boys were competitive with each other). His conversation with his mother shocked Stein out of his life path towards being an insensitive asshole, and his relationship with Samr improved as he began to notice how cruel and unfair their father was.
> 
> A note about mushrooms: Some people think that Vikings went berserk by ingesting hallucinogenic mushrooms (specifically amanita muscaria). However, ingestion of this mushroom causes nausea and drowsiness as well as delirium and irritability/agitation, not really the aggression and rage of a Berserker. Scholars now think it might have been caused by a plant called henbane or stinking nightshade, which has been found in Viking graves and has symptoms closer to those described for a Berserker. Tony is collecting Liberty Cap mushrooms, which were all over Northern Europe at the time. The Liberty Cap causes delirium, confusion, and spontaneous, uncontrollable laughter. In this chapter, Tony tries to poison Stein with this less-aggressive strain to run away. Stein assumes he’s just a stupid sheltered prostitute who doesn’t know better.
> 
> Definitions: 
> 
> Tafl is a type of strategic board game that includes games similar to backgammon and chess
> 
> A kyrtill is an overtunic.
> 
> Argr/Ragr (adj) or ergi (noun) is an insult meaning unmanly/unmanliness and was one of three words (the other being stroðinn or sorðinn (or the variation sansorðinn which basically translates to ‘demonstrably sodomized’)) that were grounds for straight-up murder with impunity or a duel to first blood (holmgang). If the person accused of unmanliness refused to duel, then he could be outlawed as his refusal to fight proved his accuser was right and he was ergi. If he fought successfully, then he proved he was manly, and his accuser is guilty of an unjustified severe defamation, would have to pay the accused compensation, and could be killed. Death during the course of a holmgang was not considered murder. If the insulted party was killed, the person who killed him had to pay half a wergeld (the worth of a man’s life) to his next of kin, but if the speaker of the insult was killed, the insulted party did not have to pay anything.
> 
> A mark is eight ounces of silver. Large silver jewelry may be hacked up into smaller amounts to make up the exact currency owed, and this non-coin, non-ingot silver was known as hack silver.


	3. Domestic Bliss Under Duress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the summer months, Tony returns with Stein to his homestead to begin a new life. He feels unaccountably betrayed when Stein offers up Tony’s services to an old childhood friend, Balki, on the man’s last night of freedom before tying the knot with Nott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Tony’s POV.
> 
> Most Norsemen were farmers, living on self-sufficient farms (which usually comprised a single extended family) in small villages. If they did go on raids (called a viking), it was usually during the summer months, and they would do something else the rest of the year (farming, craftsmen, etc). Male Norsemen were legally adults by age 16 (though boys could be on the equivalent of a jury if they were free, had a home, capable of taking responsibility, and were at least 12 years old). Girls could be married off younger and were considered adults upon marriage. In this fic, I made Steve and Balki a bit older, like mid-20s, so Balki is marrying late, and Steve's bachelorhood is starting to become a little more obviously problematic. In addition to a birth family, boys sometimes had a foster family who they remained close to throughout their life. Often, a child from a ‘better’ family was fostered by an ‘inferior’ family, and the birth family would pay or support the foster family. It was a way to redistribute children (due to high infant mortality, some families had very few or no surviving children) and foster an alliance between two families. In case this isn’t clear, Balki (from a wealthy farming family) was fostered by Stein’s family (Joar was a craftsman, specifically a blacksmith). After the death of his father and disappearance of his mother, Stein was taken in completely by Balki’s family. As an adult, Stein, Balki and his sisters’ families live in the main room of the longhouse and tend to the large family farm, which is more or less self-sufficient. Thralls live at one end where they also board the livestock during the winter.

Tony thinks Stein must be a bit touched in the head. There is no other explanation.

Gormghiolla had explained (with relish) what a _holmgang_ was. Stein had agreed to fight in a duel to the death with another Viking dog ostensibly over the rights to Tony’s asshole, and if he were to lose, Tony would be put to public use until he died suffocating on a fat Viking cock while another thrust, grunting and sweaty, into his abused channel. Tony was pretty sure that last bit had been an embellishment on Gormghiolla’s part designed to frighten and humiliate him, but the overall message seemed more or less correct, based on his growing understanding of Norse. Stein was to fight a fellow raider on behalf of a slave he _wasn’t_ fucking.

Stein had won in the end, but still, his motivation had been perplexing, almost nonsensical. He clearly didn’t capture Tony for sex but presumably for domestic chores, the one area in which Tony consistently fails to perform well. And yet, the man still valued him enough to fight to keep him. It’s an unexpected, if not unwelcome, development.

And so, Tony begins to experiment with the boundaries of his new life, starting small at first.

He forgoes shaving, growing out a beard he keeps neat and trimmed, supposing (correctly) that Stein wouldn’t mind the change so long as he grooms it well. That appears to be a theme amongst this lot what with how often (daily!) they washed their faces and primped their hair. Stein even had separate combs for his beard and long hair as well as an assortment of braided styles he preferred. He showed Tony how to execute them, numbering each style so he could request the right one with a simple hand gesture.

Tony must admit: Stein is an odd fellow, even for a Viking. Unlike the other raiders whose hair fell in a fringe in the front and was shorn in the back, Stein wore his hair long like a woman’s. It had the potential to be beautiful due to its golden color, but the ends are split and dry, requiring a much-needed trim, perhaps a fingers-length off the bottom, to be luxurious and shiny. Its length confuses Tony; a large target like that must be a disadvantage in a fight when it could get caught on something or pulled down by the enemy at a crucial juncture. He had witnessed many a jealous tussle in his days at the bath house where long hair proved to be a combatant’s undoing and thought it odd that a bona fide warrior like Stein would value vanity over efficiency and fighting prowess. But Tony supposes it’s his hair, his decision.

He rubs his face, feeling the stubble upon his chin and turning his cheek this way and that in Stein’s small looking glass. He recalls how Master Obie had always wanted him to remain smooth and eternally youthful.

Fuck that.

Now, he uses his comb to put some distance between the razor blade and his skin, keeping his facial hair short but even. Stein simply watched his transformation until one day, he had held Tony’s chin and told him it “Looks nice, Tuni,” before dropping the subject altogether.

That had been another thing. Stein speaks to him as if Tony is an imbecile, limiting his vocabulary to short phrases of small, easy-to-understand words and repeating Tony’s name with every utterance when he is directly addressing him. It is borderline insulting.

“Not too close, Tuni,” Stein had admonished him, pulling Tony back from the edge when the boat pitched to one side, sending him stumbling into the gunwale. “Tuni fall.” His fist glides down in a half arc, hitting his palm complete with a mimicry of splashing noises as Tony looks on, thoroughly unimpressed. “Tuni drown. Very bad.”

Then again, it did have its advantages.

“Tuni, where did you get this?” Stein had asked him, his tone carefully neutral, when Tony had tried to spike his water early on with root cuttings of the valerian plant, a natural sedative that unfortunately gave off the distinctive smell of dirty sweaty underclothes. Tony had thought he’d been caught until Stein spent the entire afternoon painstakingly showing him how to properly launder clothing and explaining that drinking the rinse water is liable to make one ill.

So what if Stein believes he’s slow? In effect, the assumption meant that his master expected very little of him, both in actual duties and hypothetical cunning. Tony is in no rush to disabuse him of such a notion. Information is power, and right now, the balance lay in his favor. As long as Stein thought him too stupid to escape, escape was always an option, given the right circumstances.

Tony begins to rethink his strategy after the _holmgang_ , when he almost lost Stein. As far as masters went, Stein is kind enough. He never forced Tony, never even took what was offered. In fact, he didn’t expect much from him really. If Tony were to be passed to another Viking, he couldn’t expect the same gentle treatment. He’d seen them stare, recognized the interest for what it was. Stein had noticed to; after all wasn’t that why he was dueling to begin with, to solidify his claim over his new thrall that he (again, and rather incredulously) had no interest in fucking? Adding to that, Tony is far from home, his prospects of a better life severely reduced the further they sailed. Would it be so bad to stay with Stein for a spell until he found his bearings in a new land and could plan for a life after when the opportunity for escape again presented itself?

And so he does exactly that. He behaves. He stays put, lets Stein re-teach him simple domestic chores through demonstration and baby talk, and attends to him during his daily wash and weekly bath with a proficiency of which he was always capable.

They finally dock for the very last time in what must be Stein’s homeland. Stein collects his belongings, his plunder both silver and human, and heads back to his village, Tony in tow with his chains removed but his iron collar – the mark of a thrall – remaining.

With autumn well underway and the air coming off the ocean, it’s a touch cold, so in addition to the poorly-tailored oversized kyrtill Stein had lent him, he drapes a woolen blanket around Tony’s shoulders as a makeshift cloak. Tony bunches it up over his head and holds the ends closed. He recalls the circular brooch he had left buried in Master Obie’s groin back in Bath. He could have used it now to fasten the blanket closed, leaving his arms free. It had been stupid for him to leave it behind, but he supposes sentimentality and pride always had a way of compromising one’s interests down the line. He sneezes, and his hold tightens, securing the blanket around his frame.

The land is relatively flat with gently rolling hills and sparse forests of stubby trees turning yellow and orange dotted here and there. They follow a grooved dirt road inland until Tony can make out a large structure high on a hill in the distance surrounded by smaller buildings and further out still, a vegetable garden and half-mowed tall grass enclosed by a high wall. The dark spots dotting the hill higher up from the house appear to be livestock, cows Tony guesses considering their size. There are homes of similar and smaller sizes in the surroundings lands.

Stein points to the largest outcropping of buildings. “That’s where we’re going, Tuni,” he tells him before simplifying it to “Home.”

“Perhaps for you,” Tony replies in Common Brittonic, a touch unkind. “But from where I’m standing, a prison, more like.”

It’s different, certainly. Not quite the metropolitan lifestyle to which Tony is accustomed with large stone structures and shops and significantly more people, but he supposes he can adapt.

They’re almost to the fence when a dark-haired man in a fine dark blue kyrtill edged in brightly-colored braid comes out to greet them. Stein drops his cache of belongings to embrace the stranger.

“ _Heill ok sæll,_ ” he says, stepping away from the hug to take a look at Stein, noting the healthy tan of his skin. “You are back just in time for the harvest and my _brudlaup_. I feared you would miss both while away on your summer campaign.”

Stein claps him on the back. “I would not miss it for all the silver in Denmark, _bróðir_.”

“And who is this?” the mystery man says, his tone coy and edged with excitement, turning to Stein’s travel companion just as Tony relaxes the blanket around his shoulders, dropping it back to reveal his face. He runs his fingers through his flattened hair, trying to fluff it out to be somewhat presentable. Tony sees the exact moment the man face drops in disappointment.

“Balki, this is Tuni of Bath, my thrall,” Stein introduces him to Balki before turning to Tony. “Tuni, this is Balki Bardson, my _fóstbróðir_.”

“We can board him with the rest,” Balki says, turning back to Stein. “Extra hands are always welcome during the harvest, though truth told, I had mistaken your companion here for your new _kván_ from a distance.”

And now Stein seems annoyed, crossing his arms. “Really, Balki? I told you–”

“I know how you feel about taking women as spoils,” he interjects quickly, his hands up in placation. “But I thought having seen the world beyond the village, mayhap one would catch your eye.”

“Thought or hoped?”

Balki shrugs. “Either. Both? A man shouldn’t be alone.”

“If I were so lucky as to find another woman like your _festar-møy_ then mayhap I would, but alas, that seems unlikely.”

He blushes, grins. “I am very lucky, am I not?”

Fondly, Stein drapes an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. “You will turn into a braggart yet.”

“Do you blame me? Nott will make a fine _kván_.”

Tony could deduce by context that _festar-møy_ and _kván_ were likely variations of wife or concubine. This Balki had clearly made a match and had hoped Stein would have found one, too, during the raids. Tony recalls the fates of the female thralls who had seemed to have been singled out by their new masters for the role and shudders, but the tidbit did reveal something new about Stein himself: he is unattached. Tony had assumed the reason for Stein’s abstinence was a pretty little lady back home who would be upset he had taken up with another in his travels, but that is clearly not the case.

Then why is Tony here? Why had Stein selected him?

Balki and Stein split the bundles the latter had dropped, hefting them up on their shoulders. Stein signals Tony to follow him as he and Balki walk back towards the main house. “The _brudlaup_ is Frigga’s Day two weeks hence, yes?” he asks.

“It is. You made it back just in time to attend, and with help beside, I suppose.” Balki sneaks a peek back at Tony, seemingly just as confused about his presence as Tony himself. Tony drops his gaze, staring demurely down at his feet.

“Yes, Tuni was a thrall working a local bath house,” Stein confirms before casually offering, “If you need to borrow him the Thor’s Day prior, then I will send him over.”

Tony freezes, only resuming his forward journey when Balki turns back to regard him more fully. Tuni is a dumb slave yet to learn Norse, after all; Tony must act the part. He bumps into Stein, feigning bewilderment when he bounces off, as if he didn’t notice his new master had stopped in the first place. Stein steadies him by the upper arm, ensuring Tony doesn’t fall back into the mud.

Balki looks skeptical. “You certain he knows what to do?”

Stein looks over at his friend, his grip still loose on Tony’s arm. Theoretically, Tony could break away if he wanted, could run away over hill country, hope that Stein and Balki both trip over the large stones jutting out of the ground in their pursuit (over lands they’ve likely known since they were babes, mind). Tony _could_ flee. Hypothetically-speaking.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he stays put as Stein relates his less-than-impressive resume. “He cannot bake a loaf of bread; he gathers poisonous berries and mushrooms when I send him into the wilderness to forage; and he’s hopelessly useless as a scullery slave, though I’m working on that yet, but Tuni is competent in _one_ activity at the very least.”

The pit of his stomach drops out, and Tony nearly trips over his own feet when he unconsciously tries to back away. Stein catches him before he can even start to fall.

Balki looks unconvinced. “You traveled halfway across the world yet could not procure a more… _useful_ thrall?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t realize he’d be so–” Stein pulls Tony close to him when the man tries to bolt, nearly slipping in the mud yet again. “Tuni, stop that. No! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Balki’s mouth. “Found him in a bath house, did you?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Stein protests. “He was about to be slain, and–”

But Balki is already waving off his explanation. “Alright, send him over after I return from the _helheim._ Nott will appreciate the offer, I’m certain.”

It had been a while since Tony had to satisfy multiple people at once. He had done it before, back when he was younger and Master Obie wanted to play host to a visiting dignitary and their entourage. The experience always left him gaping and sore as he was passed around and used first by one then another. But Nott is a woman, he knows, and men rarely liked to share their wives. Perhaps she will only watch as Balki had his way with Tony, using and degrading him in ways he never would with someone he actually cared for and loved.

Tony looks to Stein, who now leads him by the wrist as they continue on. So this is why Stein chose him, not for his own personal use, but as a common whore for the community with Tony’s first trick offered to his friend as some sort of wedding present. That’s why he hadn’t touched Tony yet; he was saving him for Balki. Maybe after, he will take Tony himself before offering up his services through the long winter to his fellow man for a silver penny a fuck (then progressively less as they grow bored of his talents, which will presumably happen faster considering the lack of variety in this one-horse village).

Tony doesn’t know why he feels so unaccountably betrayed. Masters are all the same, cruel and malicious but seemingly kind when they want something from you.

“You will sleep here, Tuni,” Stein had told him, showing him to the darkest corner of the longhouse, where the livestock and Balki’s other thralls – two women and an older man, hardly the harem Tony was expecting – live.

“A veritable palace,” Tony deadpans, knowing Stein cannot punish him if he does not understand the slight. “Certainly, you spared no expense.”

The stables are separated by a rudimentary doorway from the main room where the hearth lies central to the house and benches covered in linen sheets, woolen blankets, and sheepskin border the walls. This center area is where the free families sleep, snuggled together and warm. Above the hearth, there are slots in the thatch for the smoke to escape as well as windows running the entire length of opposite walls covered with rolled sheepskin just under the upper eaves to allow for more lighting and ventilation. Long tables are set into the rafters, and there’s a loft on one end that serves as a storage area where Tony can see salted pork hanging down from the ceiling on hooks, preserved for the coming winter.

After Tuni had stowed away his meager belongings, taking his straw hat to wear outside, Stein leads him out back towards the walled-in long grass, which turns out to be hay fields where Balki’s kinfolk are harvesting the crop. Balki and three men man scythes to cut the hay in bunches while another man and the elder children rake, turn over, and tie the crop into stacks to be dried and stored in the barn as feed for the livestock. Working out of a small pit house, the older thrall is expertly sharpening scythe blades on whetstones and retying them to their handles to be swapped out for the working ones when they grow too dull to effectively cut through the stalks in one sweep.

Stein picks up a rake himself, handing another to Tony as he painstakingly demonstrates the new chore.

Predictably, Tony is terrible at it. Having never farmed a day in his life, he tires quickly, his arms ache and the skin of his soft hands chafe against the wooden handle, growing red and puffy, slowing him down significantly. The boy working beside him cannot be more than nine, and yet he’s looking at Tony and rolling his eyes as if Tony were the babe playing at being an adult.

Stein comes by for a water break, sees the blisters forming across Tony hands, then carefully wraps linen across the meat of his palms and brings him a pair of well-worn leather gloves for protection. They’re a touch large, but they do the job. Still, by evening meal, Tony is exhausted, with both hands thrashed and pains in muscles he never knew he had.

Prepared by the women of the household, the evening meal consists of bread with butter and cheese, nuts and berries, lamb freshly slain and stewed with cabbage, leeks, and onions, as well as plentiful ale brewed from the barley they grew. At least that’s what Stein and Balki’s kin ate, sat around tables pulled down from the rafters for the occasion. In contrast, the meal for the thralls included a bowl of bland but filling porridge and fresh cod. Tony slurps it down, ravenous from the work of the day.

“Slow down, young man. You’ll make yourself sick,” the older man, a thrall named Yinsen tells him in Norse.

Tony slows incrementally just as one of the others, a woman named Aoibhe, speaks up. “He doesn’t understand,” she informs Yinsen. Tony resumes his prior pace. Yinsen narrows his eyes at him but says nothing about it. Aoibhe continues, “Stein captured him from the Anglo Saxons of Britannia. He speaks neither Norse nor Gaelic, the poor dearie.”

“Poor dearie?” repeats the third thrall, incredulously. “Did you not see how the young master dotes on him? Wrapped up his hands hisself and asked if I could fix him a proper kyrtill, he did. Look how he butchered the one he’s wearing.”

“That’s not very kind, Maebh,” Aoibhe interjects.

“You said it yourself. He cannot understand us by the by.”

“I for one, am glad to have another strapping young man on the farm,” Yinsen says before the conversation can devolve into a spat between the women. “It’s been tough these past few springs with only myself, Master Stein, and Mistress Astrid’s boy willing to spread the _tað_ in the fields, and I don’t think young master Erik will want to do it much longer. It’s dirty work after all.”

“I’m always surprised Stein still volunteers for the most degrading of tasks,” Maebh adds. “No offense meant, but it’s hard enough on anyone, especially a man of your advanced years. Master Balki could procure another thrall for the job.”

Yinsen looks into his bowl. “I think that is why he still does it.”

After the evening meal, when Maebh and Aoibhe have collected the bowls and gone outside for the washing up, Yinsen looks to Tony. “You have a kind master, Tuni of Bath. I hope you serve him well.”

Tony simply smiles at him dumbly as if he doesn’t understand. “You are not the one being asked to serve on your back, old man,” he replies brightly in Common Brittonic.

* * *

For the next two weeks until the appointed time when he is to service Balki, Tony vacillates between being sullen and vindictive. He finds new and exciting ways of being the village idiot and causing maximum inconvenience to his master, completing his duties (including ones in which he was formerly proficient) poorly on purpose but just on the right side of the line to avoid punishment. It isn’t particularly difficult. He could never cook well nor wash with expediency, and the farm work is new to him so a learning curve is to be expected, but Tony is intentionally slow with even the most rudimentary of chores. He bales half the hay of the youngest child, and when tasked with collecting turf to cover the hay stored outside the barn, he breaks it up and collects it in small pieces, insufficient for proper coverage no matter how often Stein demonstrates the correct process.

“I do not claim to understand your motives, Tuni,” Yinsen would tell him, despite Tony’s lack of response. “But you will not be able to escape work on a farm. Every man, woman, and child contributes, and if you cannot, worse tasks will come your way.”

Worse tasks are already on the docket no matter what he does, as far as Tony is concerned.

Even Stein grows exasperated with his grievous incompetence, confused as to how tasks that Tony could normally do with little issue have become near impossible for him to perform well these days now that they are in a stable environment.

“Tuni,” Stein says, sniffing the water meant for his morning wash. “Where did you get this?”

Tony points to the trough where the cows drink. One of them sneezes full into the basin, snorting loudly, then continues lapping at the tainted water.

“No Tuni. You have to get it from the well,” Stein points to the rounded cistern. “The well,” he repeats.

“An ass drinks from the trough, same as all the livestock,” Tony says, his tone bright upbeat and happy in his role as the dim-witted but well-meaning servant.

After Stein had cleaned and fetched his own water for the third time that week, he sits before Tony, and holds up two fingers, indicating he would like the #2, a series of braids running close along the sides of his head ending in a half-up hairstyle. Tony nods his understanding, then braids his hair, leaving out significant portions with some strands abandoned mid-braid, leaving it to poke out here and there until it resembled the nest of a blind and crippled sparrow. The braids itself are crooked and misshapen, nearly ratty in appearance with most loose but some drawn tight enough to make Stein grunt. Tony finishes off his piece de resistance with bright ribbons tied in large bows at the end.

Stein touches his hair, patting along the sides and back. He can already feel how awful it is before peering into the looking glass for the full effect.

He scowls. “Tuni, what has gotten into you!” He’s already pulling out the braids and re-doing it himself into a simple style that falls down his back.

But when he turns back to lock eyes with his hapless thrall, his face changes from annoyance to concern at what he finds there. He holds the back of his hand to Tony’s forehead. “Are you unwell?”

Tony shakes his head, stepping away from Stein and crossing his arms, gripping them tightly and curling inward a bit, making himself appear smaller. He doesn’t quite look at his master. Maybe… maybe if Tony feigns illness, he might be able to get out of his _other_ duties with Balki the following Thor’s Day. Even so, he knows it will only delay the inevitable. Even if it’s not Stein’s foster brother, it will be someone else with coin enough to tempt his new master.

Stein drapes a cloak around his shoulders, causing Tony to look up at him.

“For you, Tuni,” he says, pulling it around him snugly. “Winter is coming. Stay warm.”

Tony clasps the cloak closed, knowing it will never stay that way without a–

“For you,” Stein takes the liberty of pinning his cloak closed with an iron open-circle brooch and straight pin. “I made it for you, Tuni. Do you like it?”

Tony’s breathing grows ragged and audible as he stares at the brooch.

 _This is for you, my boy, as a sign of my favor,_ Master Obie had said all those years ago, pinning it to his outer tunic. _All will know you are mine._

“…Tuni?”

In a fit of helpless rage over a wasted life and all his masters, new and old, Tony rips off the brooch, pulling the cloak from his shoulders and practically throwing both at Stein before stomping out of the stables altogether to get some fresh air.

“Fucking bastard suckling at the teat of his bitch mother,” he barks out in his native tongue as he squats down low on his heels, ruffling his clawed fingers through his hair.

He’d rather be cold.

* * *

The Wash Day before the wedding, Tony is tasked with attending to Stein’s bath as per usual. He brings Stein buckets of water to pour over his head, scrub down and rinse before settling into the heated open-air stone pool with the other men of the household for a soak.

He draws the water direct from the well, neglecting to heat it in the nearby forge. And so the first pour over Stein’s naked flesh is ice cold.

Stein shivers and Tony muffles a laugh too late, catching his master’s attention.

“Tuni, did you do that on purpose?” He asks, grabbing the collar of Tony kyrtill. Tony averts his gaze but doesn’t answer, knowing a refusal would be a lie, and his master has an unusual (and rather hypocritical) hatred of liars. Stein shakes him slightly to draw his attention, but when Tony finally meets his eyes, Stein deflates, his anger abating. Still, there is something he needs Tony to understand.

“Tuni, I know not what I have done to upset you, but you cannot act this way on Thor’s Day with Balki,” he states sternly, bringing him closer. “Do you understand? It is important that you do.”

Tony pauses a beat, then nods his assent.

“Good.”

Stein finishes his wash then joins the other men as Tony stands by.

* * *

On Thor’s Day night, Tony is more or less resigned to reprising his original role as a whore. While most of the men are away – likely celebrating Balki’s final night of freedom at the _helheim_ , whatever that may be – Tony prepares himself in the outhouse, one of the few places he can expect privacy where others will not walk in on him. It’s not comfortable. The entire place smells and has a veritable cloud of flies buzzing about, but he tries not to think about it too much. The process is utilitarian, perfunctory, just enough to stretch and slick himself for it not to be too damaging when Balki takes his ass.

Nearing the pool now, he hears the wedding party before he sees them, joking and laughing together, a couple of them howling at the moon, coming up behind him on the path leading to the outdoor bath. Tony joins the other thralls as they hurry along, ferrying buckets of hot water between the nearby pit house outfitted with a forge and caudron and the pool. (Tony considers whether he could build a piping system perhaps like back at the bath house, but he recognizes it as the diversion it is, to stop himself from thinking about the next hour or so.) The group rounds the corner, and–

Huh. Unlike Stein and the others, Balki is filthy and sweaty, dirt rubbed all over his clothes with some mixed into his hair and smeared on his skin. Despite the grime (something the Norsemen are loathe to touch much less play in), Balki is grinning ear-to-ear. Perhaps it is tradition to dump the groom-to-be in a bog on the eve of his wedding? Last night of freedom; time to do something you never would normally? Tony is uncertain, but perhaps one of these taboo activities includes fucking a whore who is _not_ your wife-to-be.

“…and if she be angry, I find a little bauble, a trinket of apology and affection will smooth things over,” his brother-in-law is telling Balki with a final pat on the shoulder.

The other thralls exit with the wedding party, leaving Balki with Tony, a bar of homemade animal-fat soap in hand, clean linens, and several buckets of hot water to help their master rinse off.

 _This is fine,_ he thinks as he helps Balki strip, folding his clothes and placing them on the side to be laundered later. Like Stein, Balki is tall and broad, the muscles down his arms and along his abdominals well-defined with a dusting of hair across his chest and leading from his belly button down to–

Tony averts his eyes, dumping a bucket over Balki to wet him. Ignoring Tony for the most part, Balki quickly works over body, his face and hair, with particular attention to areas exposed by his clothing. He hands the bar back to Tony, pointing to his back.

 _This is fine,_ Tony tries to tell himself as he scrubs the man down before rinsing off the grey suds with the remaining buckets of water. Now clean, Balki then enters the pool, leans back to wet his hair then lies back to relax against the stone edge, his shoulders just above the water and eyes drifting close.

 _So, he is one of those,_ Tony thinks, a _man who prefers his whore to mount him, to do all the work._

He hadn’t expected this, but it is not necessarily a terrible turn of events. Riding Balki means he can set his own pace as he bears down, stretches himself out on the man’s cock with incremental thrusts. He has survived a similar arrangement before, and this will be no different. He supposes that Balki is attractive – handsome of face and tall and broad like Stein, though more visibly hairy. He also seems reasonably nice from what Tony has observed the last couple weeks. Maybe he’ll even let Tony adjust a bit early on and not grow frustrated, pushing him down prematurely to seat more fully inside then rising to his feet, flipping him forward to pound into him while Tony grasps the pool’s edge, his faltering grip the only thing that keeps him afloat, prevents him from drowning.

 _This is fine,_ Tony lies to himself as he strips down as well, leaving only his collar, and enters the warm water. Balki cracks open an eye at the sound of Tony’s soft splash into the pool, registering the thrall’s company at a glance. Tony pauses, uncertain how to proceed, but when Balki shuts his eyes yet again, he takes it as a positive sign to continue. He draws closer, gliding across the waist-deep water to reach Balki, hand outstretched to touch his knee.

_This will be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note about Valerian: Valerian grows in throughout Northern Europe, Britain, and China. It is a sedative/sleep aid that in lore is said to make people pliable and tame wild beasts. Unfortunately, it also stinks to a lot of people. Early on, Tony tried spiking the raiders’ food with various natural remedies to get away, but Stein always managed to thwart him, assuming he was not being malicious but was just exceedingly slow.
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> Heill ok sæll is a Viking greeting meaning (this version is the one used to address a man) and means healthy and happy.
> 
> Bróðir is brother. Fóstbróðir is foster brother.
> 
> Festarmål is a betrothal.
> 
> Brudlaup is a wedding.
> 
> Festar-man is a groom.
> 
> Festar-møy is a bride.
> 
> Kván is a wife.
> 
> Helheim is a grave. One of the the old traditions in a Norse wedding is that the groom would break into his ancestor’s grave the night before his wedding to steal a sword which was later presented to his wife for their future son. He would then take a bath and wash away his bachelorhood. Stein offers to send Tony to attend to Balki’s bath after this part of the ceremony so he can be clean for his wedding the following day. Tony interprets his intentions differently and spends the two weeks up to the wedding acting up and being generally disobedient.
> 
> Tað is manure. Because Vikings did not practice rotation farming (where you grow different crops to replenish the soil), they had to frequently spread animal manure to fertilize the land and make it usable. As you may imagine, this was a very dirty, undesirable job usually reserved for slaves.
> 
> Frigga’s Day is Friday, and a common day for weddings.
> 
> Thor’s Day is Thursday.
> 
> Wash Day is Saturday.


	4. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balki marries Nott Ivarsdottir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Stein’s POV.
> 
> If you'd like to see the beautiful art by MassiveSpaceWren that inspired this fic, please go to Chapter 1 for the "Inspired by" note in the beginning. I just added the link there :)

Stein is drinking and exchanging bawdy tales with the others, Balki’s kinfolk and some men from the surrounding village, when he hears screaming followed by angry incoherent shouting coming from Balki’s location. An ambush, he thinks, as he grabs his axe on the way out while others commandeer various weapons, leaving some behind to guard the longhouse while the rest rush over to confront the source of the commotion.

He expects raiders, murderers, thieves in the night, but what he finds is Balki, a cloth wrapped around his waist, yelling obscenities at Tuni, who cowers naked in the pool. The appearance of dozens of witnesses brandishing all manner of weaponry makes his thrall draw up his knees in an attempt to more fully cover his nudity. Stein holsters his axe at his hip and walks up to the tableau, picking up a fresh linen from the pile to hold in front of Tuni, shielding him from the others and offering him an out with as much dignity as he can scrape together. Tuni looks up at him warily, so Stein brings the cloth closer, rustling it insistently.

“I apologize for him, Balki,” he begins as Tuni stands and wraps the linen around himself. “There must have been a misunderstanding–”

Having a new target for his ire, Balki scrabbles fingers through his wet hair and breathes in deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Stein… Did you send me a whore on the eve of my wedding?”

Tuni flinches, his eyes firmly on the ripples in the water as he clutches the cloth tighter around his body.

“There must have been a misunderstanding,” Stein reiterates, picking up Tuni’s clothing and handing it back to him in a loose bundle. “He knows how to attend a bath in the proper sense, but Tuni isn’t familiar with our customs. He must have gotten confused by the circumstances and the late hour. It was a mistake; it won’t happen again.”

“Take him back to the house. I think we’re done here.” Bucky still looks frustrated, angry, but he will let it go for Stein’s sake. Besides, such a conversation shouldn’t have an audience.

Stein nods. “Come away, Tuni,” he says, grasping his nearest shoulder to lead him towards the path back to the longhouse.

But Tuni stalls when another latches onto his other arm. He shies away just as Stein notices and draws Tuni behind him, standing between his thrall and the man Stein knows (and dislikes) from the village, Hamar.

“It was a fine gift, Stein. Any man here would have been delighted to receive him, but if Balki is too… attached to his _festar-møy_ to accept your generosity, I could entertain him for the night,” Hamar offers. “I will pay you for the privilege of course,” he adds when Stein’s expression turns grim, his displeasure clear to even one so opportunistic and thick as Hamar.

“He’s not for sale,” Stein states curtly. He removes his cloak, draping it around Tuni’s shoulders to better conceal his form from view as they continue forward unmolested by any others.

Stein is silent for a beat, troubled by the implications of what he had witnessed. _Is it possible…?_ No, there must be another explanation.

“Tuni…” Stein says softly, once they are out of earshot of the pool. Tuni doesn’t acknowledge the question in his master’s voice, but Stein knows he’s listening. “Are you in love with Balki?”

That seems to shock Tuni out of complacence. He looks up at Stein, scandalized, like Stein must be stupid to ask such a question. He shakes his head adamantly.

“No,” he replies, apparently having learned at least one word in Stein’s native tongue. Stein supposes it’s an important word to know, all things considered.

“Then why…” but Tuni looks away, clearly unwilling to discuss the matter further.

So Stein leads him into the longhouse, but instead of dropping him off in the stables, he pulls Tuni past the other thralls to enter the main area, where he collects a couple sheep skins and blankets, hands them to his thrall, then picks up a small oil lamp to lead him back out towards the pit house near the hayfields, the one housing the farming tools and forge that served as a blacksmith’s workshop. Once inside, Tuni sits in the corner while Stein drops a pallet from the side and smoothes out the sheepskins over it before layering on woolen blankets.

“We’ll sleep here,” he says, patting the bed he had made. After Tuni’s attempt, Balki may not want the thrall under his main roof for the night, but Stein is still responsible for him, and he will care for him even now. Besides, this isn’t too different from their set-up before, when they had been sailing home. 

Tuni doesn’t move from his corner, his eyes wide in the low light from the lamp.

“Sleep only,” Stein clarifies, flipping back the blankets and stepping away so Tuni can shimmy inside.

Tuni struggles to put on his trousers and undertunic while remaining covered by the cloak, looking back at Stein who pointedly turns away until Tuni can sort himself out and get situated under the sheets. Then Stein strips off his own kyrtill and trousers, leaving his linen underclothes on to slip in beside him and snuffing out the oil lamp.

Tuni is curled up as far as he can get from Stein, turned towards the wall.

“Tuni,” Stein says, his voice soft in the dark. “I will never require you to do anything of that nature. I will never ask, and if anyone ever does – even Balki, though I do not think he would be so cruel – you can always refuse, and I will uphold your right to do so.”

Lying so close together, Stein can feel Tuni begin to tremble, his shoulders hunched and hands covering his face when he inadvertently lets out a bitten-off sob.

He shushes Tuni, his stroke light down his thrall’s upper arm soothing. “Shhh, Tuni, it is all right. You are safe here,” he murmurs. “No one will ever hurt you like that again, not while I still draw breath.”

Tuni’s muffled sobs grow louder as he shies away from Stein’s touch, rolls onto his stomach and buries his head into the nest of his own folded arms to weep openly, as if a dam had broken and Tuni simply couldn’t hold it in anymore. He clearly doesn’t want to be touched at the moment, so Stein rolls onto his side facing the cold forge with Tuni at his back to give him space despite their proximity. Tuni eventually quiets and stills, falling into a fitful sleep. Once he is certain Tuni is asleep, Stein drops off shortly after.

He dreams of his brother Samr hiding in the eaves, imploring him to _Don’t listen, Stein. Don’t listen._ The single leg of salt pork is slowly twisting above him, and Samr’s hand smothers his mouth, muffling any sound while his legs easily pin the struggling boy. Samr’s palm tastes of salt and sweat and naked fear when Siodhachan bites down, but he doesn’t let up. Because Samr is older, wiser; he knows he can’t let the monster below find them. There will be repercussions if it does. _Stop it. Lie still._

But Siodhachan _can’t_.

_He’ll kill you. Don’t think he won’t._

But that isn’t right. Because Siodhachan is going to kill _him,_ the monster wearing human skin.

And in his dreamscape, he slips, skinny and agile, from Samr’s grip, yanks an empty iron hook from the ceiling, and jumps down to do exactly that.

* * *

Stein wakes the next morning, his erection pressed flush against Tuni’s thigh. He hopes his thrall hasn’t roused, but one look at the man – eyes closed but face stiff, body taut and radiating tension – means he has no such luck. Stein tries not to draw attention to it, moving off the palette to rise and get dressed for the day. His breath hangs in the crisp air, and so he bundles up his side of the blankets on Tuni’s prone body, ignoring his thrall’s deception, and sets out to gather firewood, dropping it in the forge and using a firestarter to catch flame to the fuel, lighting it up to a slow burn. He puts on a pot of water, to heat up for his morning ablutions.

Tuni pretends to stir, finally arising himself.

“Did you sleep well, Tuni?” Stein asks, taking the water off when it begins to steam and pouring it into a bowl.

Tuni nods, reaching over for his kyrtill to pull over his head before fluffing out his hair.

Stein takes the bowl outside, signaling Tuni to follow for the daily wash. Afterwards, he asks and receives his requested hairstyle with no further attempts at sabotage. Stein isn’t stupid; he has a pretty good idea as to the root cause of Tuni’s earlier disobedience, but he has to be sure the matter is resolved.

“It’s Balki’s wedding today, Tuni,” he says, his tone serious. “I trust you can help the others? I hope you do not hinder Maebh and Aoibhe’s efforts, nor cause any issues for Yinsen. He is responsible for you and will show you what to do, but he is an old man and cannot handle the strain of a rogue thrall. If not for Balki nor I, be good for Yinsen’s sake. Understand?”

Tuni nods.

“Good,” and with that, he directs Tuni towards the stables to join the other thralls in their preparation for such a momentous occasion.

* * *

“You did not come home last night,” Balki says, after Stein bid him good health this fine morning.

Aoibhe is doing his hair for the occasion, and he is already dressed in his best tunic and wearing his ancestral sword on one hip and a simulacrum of Thor’s hammer on the other. She finishes, holding up a looking glass for him to approve with a nod, then returns back to the others.

Stein waits for her to leave, arms crossed and fingers tapping nervously at his inner elbow. “I stayed in the nearest pit house, the one with the smithing forge,” he admits. “I thought… well, with Nott and her brother’s family moving in, you could use the space. I do not wish to crowd out your family.”

“Nonsense,” replies Balki, dismissing his concern outright, pointing out, “You are family.”

But Stein is firm in his decision. “It’s fine. I can manage living in the pit house beside. It is where I belong anyway, seeing as how I am the resident blacksmith.”

“I noticed the stables were a little emptier than usual as well,” Balki hints, finally broaching the meat of the matter. When the man doesn’t offer any further explanation of his decision, he continues, “I do not blame you, Stein, for Tuni’s… indiscretions. I am not turning either of you out.”

“I know, but Tuni… Tuni is still adjusting. He’s sensitive… simple. And due to where he comes from… mayhap he would do better with less people around.”

Balki bites his lip against the smile rising to the surface. “With the way you carry on about Tuni, it is like you are marrying today and not I,” he comments.

Stein doesn’t find the observation particularly amusing. “Do not be ridiculous. I am merely suggesting – only suggesting mind you – that he may take longer to grow accustomed to his position. You know how the new ones can be, and Tuni is slower than most. He– he just needs time.”

Balki tilts his head, considering his brother and long-time friend. “Could it be,” he begins, his tone a touch more serious than it had been. “Could it be that Tuni’s situation reminds you of someone else, and that is why you have become quite the mother hen with him?”

Stein opts not to answer, so Balki simply offers, “You are both welcome back to the main house when Tuni is more… acclimated to the environment and does not attempt to sit nude astride my lap.”

Stein bats him lightly on the shoulder. “With a face like that, he is unlikely to make the same mistake twice.”

“Excuse you. I am exceptionally handsome; just ask Nott.”

* * *

The wedding takes place in a nearby field where guests from both families and their villages can witness their nuptials.

Nott is beautiful, her red hair worn long and exposed for the very last time as a maiden and topped with a bridal crown of ornamental silver twisted and decorated with vines and leaves secured by brightly colored cord. Among the loose locks are small braids to better hold the silver pins and beads interspersed throughout. She wears a blue tunic trimmed in yellow and orange braid and carries her own ancestral sword as is customary.

After she and Balki exchange the dowry and _mundr_ , the _gothi_ sacrifices a sow by slitting its throat, collecting the blood in a bowl to be offered to a statue of Frigga upon the alter. He then thumbs some on his own forehead and dips fir twigs into the bowl to fling the rest in the sign of the hammer pointed towards the direction of the married couple and assembled guests to be blessed.

In the background, the thralls take the sacrificial offering away to prepare for the wedding feast. Stein can see Tuni now, looking curiously upon the ceremony as he lifts one end of the pig to be taken to the pit for roasting.

Balki and Nott then exchange swords and rings, joining their hands together upon the hilt of their sword as they speak their vows.

“He weds you to honour and to be the lady of the house,” the gothi drones on, “to half the bed and to locks and keys, under one blanket and one sheet…”

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Balki takes off running towards Nott’s family home, which will serve as the reception hall. Stein and Balki’s kin chase after the groom followed closely by Nott and hers, but the bride is hindered by her longer attire. Even hiking up the edge of her tunic, she cannot catch her new husband, and Balki arrives shortly before the bride to lay the sword across the entry-way and stand dead center, blocking her entrance. She nearly runs into him, but Balki catches her before she can barrel through.

“Ah, my love, I have beaten you on this day,” Balki declares, victorious. “Your family shall serve mine their first ale.”

Nott raises a brow, tapping his nose fondly with her forefinger. “You had a head start. The gothi bare finished the binding before you were off.”

“I needed every advantage to beat you,” he admits. “It is not fair that your legs are so long and spritely like the deer. I merely evened the odds,” he steps aside. “Now, let us go together into the hall so we can drink and make merry,” he says, as he helps her across the risen threshold, over the sword so she doesn’t trip.

Balki then picks up his sword, burying it as deep as he can into a support pillar of her home, as is custom. He looks over his shoulder at his new bride, proud of the depth of the scar he left.

Nott bites her lip against a smile. “Lucky strike.”

“There is no luck needed when it’s you and I.”

Once everyone is seated, Nott holds up the loving-cup filled with bridal ale to her new husband.

“Ale I bring thee, thou oak-of-battle, with strength blended and brightest honor, ‘Tis mized with magic and mighty song, with goodly spells, wish-speeding runes,” she recites the old blessings, handing the cup to Balki, who draws the sign of the hammer over it and toasts Odin as the others raise their cups. He drinks, passing the vessel to Nott, who similarly toasts Frigga and partakes, followed by their guests.

Balki then takes the hammer at his hip to lay it across Nott’s lap, reciting, “Bring the hammer the bride to bless: On the maiden’s lap lay Mjolnir; in Frigga then our wedlock hallow!”

Stein drinks to that, to their union and the hope it will prove fruitful, granting the happy couple many children in the years to come. Looking at Balki and Nott, he has no doubt they and their families have made a happy choice in each other, despite the inauspicious start so long ago. Balki loves her and she him, their union blessed with good humor and temperament on both sides.

The mead flows freely, aiming to get the entire party, especially the bride and groom, drunk enough for the following month. There is merriment and dancing and food. Cheeses and yogurt, stews and nuts and berries along with roast lamb and an entire side of beef, and at the end of the night, the sacrificial pig itself, roasted to crispy perfection.

Stein has never been more drunk in his life.

In between mingling with the guests, Balki’s kin he’s known all his life as well as Nott’s and the villagers all, he sees glimpses of the thralls milling about, refilling mead and beer, bringing out seemingly endless dishes. Tuni dips between guests, here and there, and Stein can’t help but notice how beautiful he is, with his dark hair and dark eyes, his cheeks rosy from exertion, the fine line of his jaw covered by a neat beard. Stein wants nothing more than to stroke that line as he kisses him tenderly, and in his drunken fantasies, Tuni would welcome his touch, his kiss. Anything of his Tuni wants, he can have, if only Stein could hold him for the night.

Tuni nudges him, holding out a pitcher, and when Stein lifts up his cup, he tops it off.

Stein could be so sweet to him. The back of his knuckles barely caress Tuni’s wrist before he’s gone again, disappeared like a vapor into the crowd.

At the end of the night, Nott’s attendants walk her back to Balki’s longhouse to prepare her in the bridal suite, while Stein and two other kinsmen lead Balki back by oil lamp, making sure he doesn’t stumble too much on his way home.

Stein has an arm around his waist as Balki wraps one around his shoulder, leaning heavily against him.

“Did you see Nott tonight?” Balki slurs, nearly tripping over his own feet, but propped up on both sides by Stein and his sister’s husband. “Isn’t she the most comely creature you’ve” – he yawns then burps loudly – “you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

 _Had Balki seen Tuni?_ Stein’s liquor-addled mind supplies.

“She was… is the most beautiful… woman in that room,” he says instead. “And tonight, she is yours.”

Balki’s head rolls over to look in Stein’s general direction, uncertain which of the two he sees is his friend, “You should get yourself to wife,” he mumbles. “Not mine, but… a wife would do you good. You– you’re not so bad, not ugly, have good kinsmen beside.” He pats Stein’s far shoulder. “You could do quite well with a woman by your side.”

Stein rolls his eyes. _Not this again._ “Tonight is about you and Nott, not my own bachelorhood.”

“I don’t like seeing you lonely.”

“Being alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely.”

“Oh but you are, and you’re not getting any younger beside,” Balki presses, now drooling down the front of Stein’s tunic. “Nott has friends, sisters,” he points out. “You should not be alone, brother mine.”

They’re at the longhouse now, so the men help Balki over the threshold into the main room where Nott awaits on their marital bed surrounded by her three attendants. “Okay, here we are,” Stein says, carefully dropping Balki on the bench where the sheepskin and sheets lie and the blankets are pulled back. He helps him remove his boots while his brother-in-law removes his outer-tunic to fold by the wayside. Balki then lays down in their bed beside Nott, pulling the blankets over them until both lie in a single bed.

Once they are snuggled together and tucked in for the night, the six return to the reception hall, leaving the happy couple to the consummation, though with how drunk they are, Stein doubts they’ll get very far, but who knows? Stranger things have happened.

The party lasts well into the night, with Stein waiting for Tuni at the end of the festivities. Tuni seems surprised to see him, but Stein bids him “Walk home with me, Tuni, for I am quite drunk.”

They head back to the pit house, Tuni holding the oil lamp to light the way, lending support to the much broader man as he stumbles back. When they make it home, Tuni opens the door and leads him inside, dropping him on the pallet made up to be their bed. Stein kicks off his boots and nearly gets caught in his best kyrtill, his arms drawn up and flailing and his head trapped in the body of the tunic. Tuni helps him take it off then pushes him back into the sheets, trying to get at his trousers to help him get situated in bed for the night.

As Tuni hovers over him, working at his lacing, Stein watches his face, his eyes below the curtain of thick lashes, concentrating on the task at hand. He’s as striking as ever, almost ethereal in his beauty tonight.

Tuni shucks off Stein’s pants, folding it and placing it atop his kyrtill before getting undressed himself and trying to navigate over Stein’s bulk, to get to his space on the inside where he had slept the night before.

Stein stops Tuni before he is able to clear the human hurdle of his body, pressing a hand into the small of Tuni’s back. The man freezes, looking down at his master who had never touched him so freely before.

“Nott was a beautiful bride, truly lovely tonight, but I’m the lucky bastard with the prettiest one in my bed,” Stein clumsily confesses before lifting his head up to kiss the corner of Tuni’s jaw, where it meets his neck under the left ear. Above him, Tuni nearly trembles with excitement, but when Stein pulls away, his countenance is odd. Instead of desirous, Tuni looks scared, his eyes pinched shut and mouth downturned and wobbly. His hands leave either side of Stein’s body to drift up towards his undertunic, pushing it up to fumble with the laces of his own trousers. Stein watches the knob in his throat dip as he dry swallows a sob.

Stein doesn’t like seeing Tuni sad – it just looks wrong – and so he rolls them both to Tuni’s side, gently depositing his thrall beside him before flipping onto his back once again. He then mumbles an apology, dropping off to sleep quickly with a loud snore.

Beside him, Tuni lies still and watchful, staring at his master’s profile, unwilling to turn away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stein moves with Tony into a pit house (smaller detached house mostly for lower-class people, sometimes doubling as a workshop) with the smithing forge on Balki’s estate. He makes his excuses, but the main motivation is that after the whole bath misunderstanding, Balki is a bit upset with Tony, and Stein thought it would be easier for everyone involved if he just moved out with his thrall to keep an eye on him.
> 
> The blessings said in the wedding are from the Poetic Edda.
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> Mundr is the bride price.
> 
> Gothi is a wedding officiant.


	5. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony catches the eye of another Norseman, Hamar, with disastrous consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Tony’s POV. 
> 
> There are many mentions of haymaking being part of Tony’s chores. Although sheep and goats could survive outside, a Norse farm needs about two tons of hay per cow to last the winter, which was grown in the fields nearest the home. They would store this in barns and outdoors under turf. If they did not have sufficient hay, they would start slaughtering the weakest animals for meat so they wouldn’t have to feed them. Either farmhands or thralls would do the shepherding, which was considered a low-class activity. In the summer and autumn (mid-June through mid-October), they would drive to the livestock to a higher elevation area called the sel, which could be pretty far from the main farm.
> 
> Also, just a warning: Hamar (Justin Hammer) attempts to rape Tony in this chapter.
> 
> As for what happens as a result of that… since this chapter is from Tony’s POV, you don’t really see what happens with Stein (he’ll be fine), but Vikings had a governing body called “A Thing.” Things were public assemblies of local free men, which served as both a parliament and courts in that they made political decisions and resolved disputes. (People were required to register where they lived/which farm they worked at to establish jurisdiction for the Thing. There was a period of time once a year where you renewed contracts or could move and change your residence.) Women could come to the Thing, but men made the decisions. At a Thing, people could be sentenced to death or “outlawed” meaning a person was expelled from society to fend for themselves in the wilderness, and the law wouldn’t protect him; he could be killed with no punishment. Most disputes were settled by paying fines or fighting in a duel (holmgang). The big thing with Norsemen is that if you did something, you had to accept responsibility and admit you did it, then you can defend yourself at the Thing. Theft, which requires concealment, was considered a capital offense, but you could get away with murder if you did it in public, to their face, and didn’t run away after. You had to report it and possibly pay a fine, but if you killed someone the right way, it wasn’t murder. Murder as a serious crime in Norse society is more like killing someone while they’re sleeping or setting their house on fire in the middle of the night, because you were sneaky and didn’t give the other person a chance to defend themselves. Conducting oneself with honor and honesty was paramount among Norsemen.

Stein awakens the next morning to a pounding headache, his mouth dry and head full of cotton. He sits at the corner of their bed and smacks his chapped lips, covering his eyes against the bright light of day. He knows not how much he drunk last night, can barely remember much after returning to the reception hall after the bedding much less how he got back to the pit house. He’s surprised he didn’t sleep in his boots and wedding attire.

Tony is already up, loudly going about the morning preparations with a certain vindictiveness born of anger. Stein had promised him not the morning before and last night…

Last night–

“Tuni, cease that racket,” Stein mutters just as Tony drops a ladle into the wash bowl, the reverb making Stein groan. He falls back into bed.

So, nothing had happened, but the threat was there, and perhaps if Stein had been slightly less drunk, then maybe–

“Please Tuni. I am in no mood today.” He presses hard against his eyes, rubbing at them furiously and mumbling under his breath. Suddenly, he stops and sits back up to face his thrall. “Did I… Did I do something untoward to you last night?” he asks softly, his demeanor cowed, regretful.

“I know you want to fuck me,” Tony says in Common Brittonic, vitriol nearly dripping from his tone. “I have no idea why you have not.”

Stein may not understand the words, but the tone is clear. He covers his face in his hands, looks as if he is about to cry.

So Tony takes pity on him. “No,” he says in Norse. “You… not last night.”

Stein wants to believe him, but still, he apologizes. “I am sorry, Tuni.” He sounds miserable.

Tony brings him the water bowl. “Nothing– nothing happen,” he says again, more kind, less forceful than before.

“Perhaps today you can help Yinsen in his tasks,” Stein offers. He accepts the bowl, stepping outside to do his daily wash and braid his hair himself. “I will go to the main house to witness the morning-gift and then up to the _sel_ to watch over the cattle. You… you mind Yinsen. Be good, Tuni.”

Tony nods, watching his master go down the path towards the longhouse. He then completes his own morning routine, giving Stein time to finish the ceremony at the main house and head up towards the _sel_ for the rest of the day. If Tony is lucky, he won’t see him until nightfall.

When he has deemed enough time to have passed, Tony himself heads up to the longhouse to find Yinsen.

He sees Balki sitting on a chair outside, Nott flitting around him, a razor in her hand and a comb and pair of scissors next to a bowl of water on a table to Balki’s right. They’re talking low, then laughing, Nott’s voice clear as a bell in the quiet of the yard. “Then I should do this for you every two weeks.”

“No other shall touch my hair but you, my love,” is Balki’s earnest reply as she tilts his head to get better access to the side, kissing his cheek for good measure.

“Did you get lost, young man?” inquires a nearby voice.

Tony’s head swivels to find Yinsen meeting him on the path, heading the way he had come.

“I saw your master not too long ago herding the cattle towards the _sel_ ,” he says. “I had wondered to where you had gone.”

“Stein send me,” Tony explains, pretending to struggle through unfamiliar words. “Help you.”

Yinsen looks skeptical, but “All right then. Come along, young man.” He leads Tony back the way he came, towards the pit house where he and Stein now sleep.

“I will be making tools for the new mistress’s brother, Klintr,” he informs Tony. “Did your master know what I would be doing this morn?” he asks as he ducks inside, the younger thrall following close behind. Yinsen pulls down the tongs and hammer to place on the nearby anvil then prods the extinguished coals, pulling out a firestarter.

Tony shrugs but looks back at the still-warm forge with ill-concealed interest. It would be good to use his hands to build something again, instead of the near-mindless, seemingly-endless toil of hay-making in which he had shown so little talent.

And so Yinsen takes him under his wing, teaching him the basics of smithing, how to file the ore into dust to be melted down and crafted into farming tools – a scythe, a spade, and the like – creating additional farming implements for Klintr and his brood to aid the harvest of hay and grain. Tony takes to the lessons well, proving to be a quick study in the art of smithing despite his ineptitude in domestic chores.

“It seems you have found your calling, young man,” Yinsen says with pride when Tony’s first scythe comes out usable after a good sharpening against the whetstone. He shows Tony how to secure it to the wooden handle so it does not easily loosen.

Stein returns to the pit house shortly after in a panic, but he relaxes when he sees Tony uninjured and whole. “I apologize, Yinsen. I did not realize you would be at the forge today. I hope Tuni did not cause you too much trouble,” he reaches out to remove Tony from close proximity to the fire. “He can be a clumsy one, and I worried for his safety and yours once I heard.”

Tony looks annoyed, his hands reaching for the scythe to show Stein that he is competent. Look at what he’s made; he can do this. Stein only grabs the scythe himself, placing it further from Tuni’s reach as if Tuni is so slow-witted as to stab either Stein or himself. Accidentally, of course.

“It is no trouble,” Yinsen replies, observing Tony’s near-murderous gaze. “Tuni is quite talented. I would like to teach him further, if you would be so inclined as to lend him. He has great potential, and under the right tutelage, could even sell his wares in the village – the items he’s made on his free time of course, with materials purchased from whatever you are willing to lend him as starting capital – to build up his own empty coffers.”

Stein seems to consider it, turning to Tony to ask, “Would you like to learn, Tuni?”

“Yes,” Tuni replies in Norse, nodding for emphasis. “I– I want… learn,” he adds, in purposely-stilted Norse.

“All right, then.” Stein relinquishes his hold. He heads out of the pit house, gazing back at the last moment to regard his thrall. “Be safe, Tuni.”

Over the next several weeks, Yinsen teaches Tony his craft after hours and on rare off-days, starting with larger simpler items comprised of basic shapes and moving to smaller, more intricate pieces, iron knives of various sizes and even basic jewelry, such as pendants and belt buckles.

Yinsen knows Tony understands more than he lets on, speaking to him as normal and refusing to dumb down his speech. Tony never drops the pretense entirely, but he does follow direction well.

“I will not divulge your secrets,” Yinsen tells Tony often, “but you should really consider telling your master you can understand him. He may fret less over your safety if he knew you weren’t so… witless and confused.”

“And why would I do that?” Tony answers in Common Brittonic as had become his habit. Stein hadn’t touched him since the night of Balki’s wedding, always keeping a respectful distance and never imbibing to excess again, but still Tony did not trust him. “So he knows he can expect more of me? What advantage would that allow me?” If Stein knew what Tony could do, he would never let him go.

Like Master Obie.

“More freedom,” replies Yinsen in Tony’s native tongue, his accent heavy but intelligible. Tony is stunned, almost dropping his tongs and plunging his piece back into the forge.

Yinsen switches back to Norse. “You aren’t the only one who can learn a new language,” he continues. “Yours will be my fourth, given long enough. You should know as well as I that a man’s station in life is not reflective of his potential. You have great potential, Tuni. I cannot fathom why you would allow it to lie fallow when more can be afforded to you.”

“As a thrall?” Tony says in Norse, fidgeting with his collar. “So my master can use my mind to enrich himself as well as my body? Stein only allows me the opportunity of purchasing my freedom because he does not know what he has.”

And now Yinsen sounds dismayed, troubled at the news. “I am sorry to hear that. Master Stein was always a fair child I thought had grown into a fair-minded man. I never expected him to use his thrall thusly. Not even Master Balki uses Maebh and Aoibhe in such a way.”

“It’s not…” Tony fumbles. “That is to say he has not… not yet anyway. But that does not mean it will not happen,” he finishes lamely. Master Obie didn’t touch him for years.

Until he did.

Yinsen only hums. “I think the iron is hot enough,” he states.

Tony curses and pulls it from the fire. He lays the ore on the anvil and brandishes the hammer.

* * *

Stein is examining one of Tony’s most recent knives. He buries it tip down into the stream, dropping a piece of felt upstream. It slides past the blade, cleanly splitting in two.

“Very good, Tuni!” He declares, pulling it back up and handing the knife back to him hilt first. “Very sharp, like my axe.” He pats his left side, indicating where his weapon would be had he been wearing it.

“Tuni happy. Happy Stein happy,” he replies, sheathing the knife and pocketing it.

“I have something for you.” Stein pulls out a chunk of hack silver, holding it out to Tony. “Winter will be soon upon us. You should not be without a brooch for your cloak,” he pats his own brooch over his right shoulder. “Use this to make one for yourself.”

It is a generous bequest, Tony knows, but he doesn’t understand just how generous it is until he brings it to Yinsen to be smelted.

“This is quite the gift.” Yinsen takes out his knife, cutting a notch into the top to check whether it is silver all the way through. (It is.) He weighs it in his palm, estimating: “Almost a tenth of the value needed to buy your freedom, should you desire.”

That piques Tony’s interest. “A tenth?”

“Thereabouts,” Yinsen confirms. “You said Master Stein gave this to you. He wanted nothing in return?”

“He only said I needed a brooch for my cloak. To stay warm, I suppose.”

“Then you shall make a brooch.” But when he sees Tony considering other uses for the silver, Yinsen adds, “Norsemen accept silver in all forms, concerning themselves only with weight and purity. If you smelt it to make yourself a practical adornment, it will not lose value if later you want to use it for a different purpose.”

And so Tony makes himself a brooch of his own design, circular like the Anglo Saxons but with a smaller concentric circle inlayed and attached by knots spaced evenly around the arc, a pin hugs the outside, laying across to hold his cloak closed when in use. He pulls out the cloak Stein had given him from the storage bin beside their bed, pinning it in place and testing the hold, finding it satisfactory.

“It is a fine brooch, Tuni.” Yinsen declares. “I am certain Master Stein will be pleased with what you have wrought with his gift.”

Tony traces his finger along the dips and grooves of the design, thinking fondly of the man and how he should thank him.

The answer comes not too long after, during the daily haymaking.

“If I could have your locks, Stein, I would not leave them so long nor so ragged,” Klintr looks upon Stein’s hair with more than a little jealousy as he cuts through the hay stalks. “The color is enviable.”

Stein gives his brother-in-law’s hair a cursory glance. “Your hair is as fair as mine.”

“Because I use strong lye to dye it during wash day, or my hair will be as dark as the mud at our feet, but you… It just sprouts from your head the color of golden straw. What you have done to it is a travesty,” Klintr asserts, rather dramatically. “At least have one of the thralls clip it for you. I’m sure Balki’s thralls had practice enough before my dear sister came into his life. I cannot imagine they would do much worse than the bird nest perched atop your crown.”

“I appreciate your concern, but my thrall already does my hair.” Stein tips his head in Tony’s direction where he is raking up the fallen crop. “Tuni does an excellent job.”

So Klintr appeals to Tony directly. “Do something, I beg of you, for the love of all that is good and aesthetically-pleasing. You see what I see, do you not?”

Stein raises a brow. “Oh, come off it. It’s not that bad.”

But Stein is wrong. It is that bad. And now Tony knows just how to repay his earlier kindness.

* * *

Stein’s hair had been an oddity amongst Vikings. Tony had noticed immediately in the early days of his captivity, but he had wondered if perhaps his village of origin had favored different beauty standards for men. That had not been the case either as it seems all Norsemen preferred a more well-kept, practical hairstyle similar to their raiding brothers. Klintr’s comments, though blunt, are proof that Stein’s hair is a violation of good taste everywhere, that he is doing himself a disservice by refusing to avail himself of the other thralls’ grooming services. Perhaps this is too intimate of a service among the Norsemen, like what Tony had observed between Balki and Nott, and Stein simply did not feel comfortable requiring that of his (or any) slave.

But Tony can do it; he wants to do it in fact. For Stein.

And so the following morning when Stein asks him for a #1, Tony combs out the knots in his long hair, eyeballing the appropriate length to remove all split ends, leaving the remainder full-bodied and shiny, then he reaches for the shears. Stein must have seen the glint of the metal, because he whips around, grabbing the wrist of Tony’s hand holding the offending tool before the thrall can take so much as the tiniest of snips, squeezing until Tony drops it entirely with a shout of pain and surprise.

“No!” Stein’s face, usually calm and placid, is pinched and angrier than Tony has ever seen, even when he had fought against Arne so many months ago. If Tony weren’t so scared, he would have found it ironic that he had inspired such feelings neither from the many instances of malicious incompetence, nor from his thwarted attempts to have sex with another man, but from trying to do something nice for his master.

Tony cowers, his head dipped down and to the side, his free arm reflexively up to shield himself (poorly) from the blows he’s sure are coming. Stein had never beat him before, and Tony doesn’t know what to expect, whether his master will even notice if he breaks Tony irreparably in his rage. Tony can hear Stein’s breathing, harsh and ragged but evening out, growing soft again, and when no strike comes, he hazards a peak up at his master.

He’s still scowling, but he drops Tony’s wrist, pointing at the pit house. “Tuni, go inside,” he orders. “Sit.” Then he stomps off before seeing whether Tony obeys his command.

Tony rubs his wrist against the developing bruise and enters the pit house to await his master’s return. He fidgets, unable to sit still, so he reorganizes the tools, putting the shears away and trying to hide the most painful implements of torture, but really, anything in a blacksmith shop can be made into a bludgeon. He straightens out their bed, folds and refolds his extra tunic and kyrtill, anything to keep his hands busy as he waits.

When Stein returns twenty minutes later, Tony sits down on the pallet, his back curved downward and eyes downturned, hands folded in his lap.

Stein walks up to Tony, who shrinks away slightly, almost unconsciously, his nails biting half-moons into the meat of his palms.

Stein sighs and sits beside him; Tony covertly tries to scoot away.

“Tuni,” he says, his voice cautious and low, calm now. “Can I see your wrist?”

Tony holds his breath, extending out both wrists, and Stein carefully takes the bruised one in his hand, turning it this way and that to observe the ring of damage. He lets out a long breath, releasing him. Tony snakes it back into the safety of his lap, holding his other hand over the discoloration, as if he is the one who should be ashamed.

“I am sorry, Tuni. I’m sorry I harmed you. I should not have treated you so poorly.” There’s regret there, shame as well. “My mother… she taught me better, and if she could see me now…” he sighs. “She was a thrall from the British Isles. Gaelic from Ireland. Thereabouts from where you hail, or so I had thought at the time.”

“Your mother?” Tony prompts, genuinely surprised. He had never thought about it, about what Stein’s parents may have been like. Nott and Balki both had several siblings, each with families of their own; Nott’s parents were still alive even, but not Stein. Stein’s most enduring relationship seemed to be with his significantly more well-connected foster brother.

“Yes,” Stein says, looking wistful. “I wanted to save her, when I was a boy. I wanted to save them all, but I was too small, too weak.”

 _Small? Weak?_ Such words would have never entered his mind when viewing the veritable specimen of masculinity beside him. The surprise must be clear on his face, because Stein clarifies, “Stein is my Norse name, but my mother called me Shee-ya-han. It means little peaceful one.”

“Little?” Tony asks in Norse, pinching his fingers together to emphasize his question.

“I… grew.”

“That’s an understatement,” he states in Common Brittonic, his hands shifting apart rapidly to convey his meaning.

Stein shrugs. “That is the common sentiment, yes.” He looks away now. “But it came too late. I was still small when my father died, and my mother… they all… they stole away in the dead of night, went back home, I suppose… left me behind. I was left without a home,“ – a pause – “I vowed to find them again, and my uncut hair… it is my vow made tangible. Never will I cut it until I find my home at long last.”

Tony rubs his wrist, feeling the ache, wondering what other things he did not know about Stein, what other pitfalls he had yet to stumble across.

Stein pats his shoulder, squeezing it slightly in comfort. “I am truly sorry, Tuni. You did not know, and I should not have harmed you beside.” He removes his hand, turns away, his shoulders slouched. “If you need me to leave, I can return to the main house. You can stay here… you know how to light the forge, don’t you? So you will not freeze in winter? I can also get more blankets if need be, and–”

A few months prior, Tony would welcome the privacy, a home of his very own. But to his surprise, he finds he does not want it as much as he wants the man beside him to stop making these concessions with a tone of voice not dissimilar to that of a kicked puppy. He moves his hand over Stein’s own, making the man stop in his tracks.

“Stay,” Tony says softly.

“…All right.”

* * *

When Tony has the inventory, he peddles his wares to the villagers with every penny going into the clay jar hidden in the pit house. He estimates his purchase price as two marks and calculates the difference between what he has and what he needs at the end of every day of selling. His progress is slow, but there is an end in sight, more than he ever had under Master Obie. Most days, he looks forward to the day he is free, but sometimes, when he truly considers what it would be like to be free, whether he would have to leave Stein and the homestead on that day, it gives him pause, leaves him with a pit in his stomach, a certain hollowness in his chest. He does not think further on why that would be. Tony has a goal now; he will work to achieve it. And so, he spends every spare minute smelting, creating, building and selling, selling, selling, his gratification growing as his coffers do.

As for his customers, Stein purchases several items (and likely overpays) while Balki purchases a delicate iron bracelet he believes his wife would like and one of his brother-in-laws selects a new brooch. A few of the other villagers buy various other goods, many of them impressed with the craftsmanship and design of even every-day items produced by the fledgling blacksmith. Some are repeat customers who are friendly enough, and Tony welcomes the business.

But one of his regulars is Hamar.

“Tuni, this is truly a marvel of design. So much beauty and grace in the very lines of this…” his intense gaze flits down from Tony’s unimpressed expression to the item in hand “…ladle. You must allow me the honor to purchase this work of art.”

Tony holds up a half penny, indicating the price. He always overcharges Hamar, adding an asshole tax to his fee as Tony deems appropriate. Hamar never calls him on it; in fact the man never negotiates the price when it comes to Tony. Truth told, that does worry Tony when he has a mind to question why.

Predictably, Hamar gladly pays. Tony takes one of his knives to the edge of the half-penny, cutting a notch to check whether it is silver throughout, like he always does.

But this time, Hamar seems to take offense. “Ah, Tuni, you wound me so! To think that I would cheat you? How can you think so low of me, your best customer?” he says, his tone dripping with mock hurt before becoming more accommodating, more obsequious. “In recompense, you should allow me to bring you dinner. I hear Stein only feeds you fish and porridge with merely the dregs of beer to wash it down. Would you like to sample my stores of fine cheeses and mutton? Bread with butter; skyr and berries? I also have an excellent honeyed mead you could try as well. If you’d only follow me to mine house. It’s just down the path a bit; you won’t be gone but an hour.”

There’s no way Tony is going to follow him home. Not now or ever. He recognizes the hunger in Hamar’s eyes – the want – had seen it a hundred times before in the bath house patrons of his prior life. Despite the act, Tony is no idiot; he knows better than to accept anything from Hamar, much less an invitation to go unaccompanied to his home.

Tony shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I have go back.” He tips his head in the direction of Balki’s longhouse, realizing belatedly how far he had strayed from the homestead.

Hamar’s hand is wrapped around his arm, insistently pulling towards the path away from where Tony wants to go. “It is not too far, and it is but an hour,” he insists. “I am certain your master can spare you the hour, and I will purchase everything in your stores if only you would come away with me.”

Tony digs his heels into the ground. “No,” he repeats.

“Oh come now. You’re a good boy, are you not? A sweet boy,” Hamar is saying, an angry edge coloring his voice. His grip on Tony has grown tight now to the brink of pain. “It is only an hour.”

“He said no,” comes Stein’s voice from behind Tony, further up the path from whence he came. Tony turns to find the man in question splitting off from a group of men he was helping to transport some millstones, converging on their location. Hamar lets go just as Stein snatches Tony’s other arm and puts himself bodily between the two. The other villagers watch the confrontation from the main road.

“Tuni and I were just conducting a little business. I am certain you gave him permission to do so. He has been selling his wares to all in the village, for any man who has the coin,” Hamar insinuates.

And though Tony knows he’s only been selling his iron creations, he feels shame in the pit of his stomach at what Hamar is implying.

“I heard him. He said no,” Stein repeats. “So clearly what you were asking for is not for sale.”

“Not yet anyway.”

“Not ever,” he impresses on the man. Then louder for the benefit of witnesses, he tells him, “Do not bother my thrall any longer. Tuni’s labor is valuable to me. Do you not see the talent in his craft? I will not stand idly by and allow you to damage my workhorse, to make his labor unavailable to me through your actions.”

“Nothing I do will deprive you of his labor,” Hamar argues. “You will not be forced to milk your own cows.”

Stein’s face darkens, becomes hard. “I am warning you he is mine, and I do not give you permission to use him in any form. I do not trust you not to damage him for my purposes as you clearly cannot understand a simple ‘no,’ if not from my thrall, then from his owner. So, here I am telling you: No. Absolutely not. Not so long as I draw breath.”

And with that, he whisks Tony away, up towards the wagon where he joins the other Norsemen in transport. He doesn’t talk to Tony, complaining to those assembled about Hamar and his attempts to tempt his only thrall away when the man has half a dozen of his own of which he can make use. Tony feels invisible, insignificant as he follows in his tracks.

Later that night, when Stein and Tony retire to the pit house, Tony is still upset. His demeanor is more quiet than usual, ceasing his usual chatter in a mix of Common Brittonic and broken Norse.

“Hamar was out of line today,” Stein says, assuming the source of his discomfiture. “He will bother you no longer if he knows what is good for him.”

Tony shakes his head. “Not Hamar.”

Stein looks confused. “Then why…” he cants his head to the side. “Are you upset with me? Is it because I was not there to protect you?”

Tony shakes his head again then points at himself. “Only workhorse. Only labor valuable.”

“Oh Tuni, you must know I did not mean that,” Stein assures him, stroking his upper arm in comfort.

He didn’t, not really, but still. Tony crosses his arms and looks down, still feeling a touch foolish at being so upset about this non-issue in the first place. Stein is his master; of course his primary concern would be the labor he can extract from him. Tony is a petulant fool if he expects differently. And yet he still can’t quite bring himself to look at Stein, to hope that this time, things might be different.

“I needed to lodge my complaint in terms Hamar and the others could understand, would find unassailable,” Stein explains, his tone soothing. “I value you beyond what labor you can provide.”

“Why?” Tony asks. Why does Stein care so much?

Stein doesn’t answer that. Instead, he looks wistful, a little sad despite the smile. “Why don’t you get ready for bed, Tuni? You have had a trying day.”

* * *

With the last days of autumn winding down and all the hay harvested and stored for the winter, Tony and Yinsen’s duties shift more towards shepherding sheep on the _sel_ , while Stein and other family members wrangle the cows, bringing them in for Maebh and Aoibhe to milk and make butter, skyr, and cheese for the long winter.

While Yinsen tends to the herd, Tony tracks down a wayward sheep strayed too far from the flock, picking his way through craggy landscape to find her.

“There you go, old girl. Back to the flock with you,” he tuts to the ewe, patting her in the direction he had come. He is still on Balki’s lands, but just about, the border marker within eyesight, which is why it is odd to be approached by a familiar but unwanted face.

“Tuni, what a delightful surprise finding you here,” says Hamar, holding his own shepherd’s crook, but his sheep are nowhere in sight.

They’re in the open, alone as far as Tony can see though he knows Yinsen is on the _sel_ as well as Stein, Balki, his elder nephews, and Klintr. They cannot be too far off.

“I will go,” he says, backing away. “Stein waiting.”

Hamar grabs him by the arm. “So soon? And here we were, just getting on nice as can be, isn’t that right?” his Cheshire smile is wide, a touch stiff at the corners. “Why do you not stay for a spell? I am sure your master allows you a break now and again, hm?”

Tony tugs on his arm, gently at first, then a bit more forcefully. “Off!” he says, alarm swelling in his chest. “Get off me!” He pushes against Hamar, whose smile cracks, the thin façade of pleasantry and civility crumbling in the face of resistance from one born so low.

“Come on, sweet boy. Don’t you want to feel good?” he asks, his voice strained, pulling the struggling thrall closer to him. “I can make you feel good.”

Tony stomps hard on his instep, his knee coming up to catch him on his groin, forcing Hamar to let him lose with a wheeze and a curse. He doesn’t wait for his assailant to recover; he runs fast as he can, picking through the landscape with some difficulty, the unfamiliar terrain slowing him down. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he has to get away from here, to put some distance between Hamar and himself before the man–

Hands pull back taut on his cloak, forcing him off-balance as a body slams into him. Tony takes a hard tumble to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. He can’t get up again. There’s a knee pressed down on his back, arm across his shoulders and hand on the back of his head, pressing his cheek into the dirt. Tony screams and struggles, his feet kicking back, connecting with nothing of consequence, and his upper body trying to snake out from under Hamar, but the man is too strong.

“You spoilt little bitch!” Hamar mutters, incensed. The hand on the back of Tony’s neck pulls up on his collar, choking Tony to cut off his shrieks. “And here I was aiming to make it good for you. I could have been so sweet, but you had to ruin it, didn’t you?” He’s fumbling at Tony’s tunic, pulling it up and his trousers down.

Tony is still muttering obscenities Hamar can’t understand when he is allowed breath. He flails, gets off a few good shots that only serve to make Hamar angrier as he scrapes Tony’s face against the rocky ground, cutting abrasions into his cheek.

“Lie still, and mayhap you will get to walk after.”

Tony knows that’s a lie. Hamar has no intention of letting him walk away after this, not when there is a chance he will tell his master what has transpired here. Tony doesn’t let up, doesn’t go quietly, but now Hamar is fumbling with his own trousers, about to take Tony fighting and spitting in the dirt.

Tony would like to say he continued to fight, to buck and scream and curse Hamar’s ancestors until the bitter end, but in that moment, when he knows what is going to transpire, he cries, closes his eyes against big, fat tears clouding his vision and wails.

And just as suddenly, the body above him is gone.

Tony crawls forward, quickly pulling up his trousers as he flips over onto his ass to shuffle back even further, to get away from the commotion. His hands feel around the ground at his side for a loose, but sizeable, rock with which to defend himself, should the need arise.

“I told you to stay away from him!” roars Stein, as he punches Hamar again. Hamar lunges at his middle, toppling both as they grapple on the ground. Stein tries to pin him while Hamar pushes him away with the heel of his hand to his chin. They break apart, both watching the other as they rise to their feet.

“Tuni,” Stein addresses Tony standing behind Hamar while staring down his adversary, daring him to move. “I want you to go, find the others over the hill about a quarter-mile out, and bring them back here to deal with this thief.”

“Thief?” Hamar scoffs. “He cannot get pregnant. He would have been able to work after just fine, and if not? How much can a thrall like him possibly be worth?” He looks over at Tony, his face smug and dismissive as if what he had tried to do to Tony is deemed less than the theft of a lamb and whatever punishment awaits him will be well-worth the attempt.

Tony knows he should do as Stein asks. He should find Balki, allow them to prosecute Hamar, to glean whatever justice is available when a free man attempts to rape a thrall and thereby permit his master to collect recompense. Tony should allow it.

Tony throws the rock he had collected, striking Hamar with a glancing blow off the man’s right forehead. He reaches down to pick up another, shaking with adrenaline, with the fury of a thousand instances of helplessness at the hands of many many men like Hamar.

“Tuni, no!” Stein commands him. Tony comes back to himself, drops the second rock.

Cursing, Hamar touches the wound on his head and comes away wet. Bright red blood slides down his face, into his eyes, over the curve of his cheek and collecting at his chin to drip onto his kyrtill.

“You whore! I will see you hang,” he rages, backing up from Tony. He snarls, turning to Stein, “Your little slut is dead, do you hear me? He is de–”

Stein removes his axe from his belt to bury the blade in the very same spot Tony had hit with a rock. Hamar’s mouth is opening and closing but no sound emits, like the dying gasps of a fish on land. He falls to his knees then slumps to the side, spasming a bit before ultimately lying still, his eyes still open and face frozen in surprise.

Tony looks on in horror. “We must bury the body,” he says in accented but otherwise-perfectly understandable Norse.

Now it’s Stein’s turn to be bewildered. “Tuni… You– you can speak,” he says, utterly gobsmacked. “How–”

But Tony has no patience for Stein’s incredulity. “Never you mind that. We have more pressing considerations. We can toss him into a ravine if need be. I saw one a half-mile back,” he bends down to lift Hamar by his feet. “If you take that end, I can carry his legs. Then we can–“

“No,” replies Stein, his resolve firm. “I cannot hide the deed. I must tell the truth about what has happened here.”

Hamar is too heavy to drag by himself, so Tony drops his legs, throwing his hands up in the air. “Are you insane? They’ll hang us both.”

“No, they will not.” Stein grabs Tony by his shoulders, insisting, “You did nothing. I killed him.”

“What are you saying? I struck him; he said it himself: I will hang.”

“Listen to me: You did nothing of the sort. I came upon Hamar trying to steal my property, like a thief in the night. Others saw how he coveted you, how I warned him off not five days prior, and yet he persisted. They will testify to this fact. Then, he trespassed on Balki’s land to take you, and I interrupted the theft. He attacked, threatened the safety of me and mine on Balki’s very own land, and I felled him with my axe.” Stein points to the scene of the crime. “The location of his body, the way the blood pools here with no visible drag-marks; all that will attest to the events in question.” He turns back to his thrall. “It was self-defense against a callow criminal. No more, no less.”

“But…” Tony points at the rock, blood flecked on one side.

Stein nudges it with his boot until the rock rests near where Hamar’s blood now pools, hiding the original provenance of the splatter. “Tuni, I need you to repeat the chain of events back to me. Do you think you can remember all that?”

There’s a pause, then: “He tried to steal me away. You came upon him. There was a scuffle, and you felled him with your axe. It was self-defense.”

“It is no lie,” Stein insists, handing Tony his shepherd’s rod that had fallen by the wayside. “Every man has a right to defend himself when threatened with harm. I see no reason why it should be any different if that man be a thrall.”

Tony looks up at his master. “Stein–”

“Now go.”

* * *

Stein must report to the Thing to plead his case in the killing of Hamar, Yinsen explains to Tony later while applying salve to his cheek and neck before bandaging his skinned knees. He will be judged by a vote of his peers, boys as young as twelve in their community deciding Stein’s honesty and whether his justification warranted deadly force. Tony is not allowed to attend, nor would his testimony hold any weight, but Yinsen tells him that based on the facts of the case – namely the attempted theft, the wound’s placement towards the front of Hamar’s pate indicating face-to-face combat, and Stein’s timely report of the killing along with his sterling reputation as an honest man – the outcome looked promising.

“He did it to protect me,” Tony tells Yinsen, giving up all pretense of a language barrier. “Hamar was going to hurt me, and he killed him.”

Yinsen raises a brow. “And you find that surprising?”

“Yes?”

“Then you do not know your master very well,” Yinsen stokes the forge, allowing the flames to flare. “His mother was a thrall, did he tell you that?”

“From Ireland, he said.”

“And his father was a hard man, cruel and unmoved by how difficult it must have been for Saraidh to leave her family, her home, with no choice but to become a brood mare in a foreign land,” he adds, poking the kindling idly. “Master Stein loved his mother.” The kindling snaps, sending up a billowing cloud of embers that extinguish mid-air. “He could never forgive his father for how he treated her. He was a kind child, respectful in a way most free boys aren’t, but angry. So very angry. He carries it well now, but it’s there, under the surface.”

Tony knows that well, but–

“Then _what_ am I doing here?” he asks, finally giving voice to the question that had plagued him since that first night so many months ago.

Yinsen shakes his head. “That I do not know. Truth told, I was surprised when first he brought you home. That had always been a point of contention between him and the young master: the acquisition of new thralls. And yet, here you are, a free man he stole away from another land, to serve in his household as a thrall.”

Tony rubs his hands together, his right over his left. He doesn’t quite look at Yinsen. “I– I wasn’t a free man in Bath. I was bound to another… one not so kind.”

That catches the older man’s attention. “Oh?”

“But I was working on it. I had a plan to get out some day.” Or 12% of a plan anyway.

“Hm… and how is that plan going for you?”

“Well, I’m about an eighth of the way there, give or take a silver penny or two, including the brooch Stein already gifted me.”

The older man considers his words carefully before divulging, “Have you considered that he might gift you the rest if you ask him for it?”

“If I…” Tony’s brows draw together. “What? Will that work?”

Yinsen looks him directly in the eye. “I do not know, but have you tried?” When Tony fails to respond, he shrugs, pulling out a lump of iron ore. “I suppose you won’t know either until you ask.”

“Assuming he returns from the Thing.”

“Yes, assuming he returns from the Thing,” he confirms. “Now hand me those tongs.”

* * *

That night, Stein does return from the Thing.

He explains to Tony that the judges had ruled in his favor, deciding that the killing had been justified due to the deceased’s thievery, and neither punishment nor compensation is necessary to clear the blood debt. In the absence of a will, his estate is to be divided amongst his kin with his thralls belonging to the free children each had birthed.

Tony is relieved, glad that Stein would not suffer for his actions, but Stein is not done asking his own questions.

“Now Tuni… back on the _sel_ ,” he chews his lip, thinks carefully how to word his inquiry. “Back on the _sel_ , you… spoke. You speak Norse better than I have ever heard you speak.”

“Yes.”

“Have you been lying to me this entire time?” Stein asks, his tone flat, but he’s frowning, perhaps remembering all the times Tony feigned incompetence and stupidity to get out of various tasks.

“You never asked,” Tony replies, rather lamely. “At first, I did not know what you were saying, then over time… it was easier if you thought… if I could not understand… it was just easier, all right?” How was he going to explain to Stein about Master Obie? About what he had done to Tony when he figured out how intelligent he was, exactly how much money Tony could make him? That although he protected Tony, Master Obie would have never freed him for fear of losing the proverbial golden goose?

Stein is not Master Obie; Tony knows that, but the old wariness is still there, bubbling just below the surface, searching for signs that all masters are the same, Stein included.

 _He might gift you the rest if you ask him for it,_ Yinsen’s voice tells him from the depths of his mind.

But Tony can’t ask for that. If he does and Stein refuses, then what does that mean for their relationship? That Stein aims to keep him, to use him as Master Obie had?

And then there’s always the inexplicably more-terrifying scenario: That Stein will say _yes_.

Tony sees the exact moment Stein decides to let it go. “You must have had your reasons, but you should know that you do not need to hide such things from me. I will protect you, whenever it is in my power to do so.”

Tony nods, his gaze on his hands. “Thank you, Stein.”

“You’re welcome, Tuni. Now, get some rest.”

* * *

He awakens to Stein still asleep on his side, his erection pressed firmly against Tony’s thigh and arm thrown around his middle. But unlike other times where such unconscious actions had inspired dread, a matching heat grows in Tony’s belly, sparking a want he had long thought dead.

_What if…?_

Tony knows Stein finds him attractive. He has wanted to fuck Tony for quite a while, his abstinence born of consideration for Tony rather than a lack of desire. And if circumstances were to change, if Tony wanted it as much as Stein, then maybe–

Tentatively, Tony turns on his side, away from his master. He begins to rub the cleft of his ass against Stein erection, just little motions at first, barely noticeable when viewed from outside the bed if one were to witness the scene. Tony reaches into his trousers to stroke himself, imagining what it would feel like to have Stein inside him, spearing him open, how good he will be for him if only–

Stein’s breathing is deeper now, his hands more purposeful on Tony’s stomach. Tony looks back over his shoulder to meet his master’s eyes, now fully awake as well. For a moment, everything is perfect.

But then Stein withdraws his touch and rolls onto his back, his arm draped over his closed eyes. He emits a low groan.

_Perhaps Stein is shy?_

Tony sits up to straddle the man, his knees planted on either side of Stein’s hips as he slides his ass over his erection, leaning over to suckle at Stein’s neck, pressing his own erection between their stomachs.

“Tuni…” Stein moans, as Tony reaches for the laces of his trousers, but Stein’s hands cover his, stilling their progress. “Tuni, we should stop.”

Tony pauses, confused at the turn of events. “Stop?” he repeats. He couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly.

Stein gets up, gently pushing Tony off his lap. “You should not feel you have to do this simply because of… because of what happened yesterday. You do not owe me anything, much less gratitude in this form.”

“I do not…” Tony begins, reaching over to caress Stein’s flagging erection, his self-confidence wilting into humiliation and self-recrimination. How can Tony be so stupid as to actually think such a handsome, considerate, virile man would want a mere slave?

“I– I want to,” he tries, his voice small.

Stein shakes his head, looking frustratingly sympathetic. “No, you do not. You cannot, not really, not while I am still your master. How can you freely offer me such a thing when you are not free to offer anything to anyone of your choosing?”

Tony reaches for his kyrtill, rising from their bed to angrily pull it over his head. He stumbles out of their nest to find his outer trousers.

“Tuni–”

He struggles to get them up over his legs.

“Tuni, I know you are upset, but–”

“But what?” He says, turning to face Stein as he laces up at the entrance of the pit house. “I am going up to the main house to breakfast with my people, the other thralls who have no say over their lives and sexual partners, even when they explicitly offer to the one person they think maybe–” he pauses, breathes out slow, and palms the door frame. “It matters not.”

Because Tony can never have what he wants.

“I am sorry if–”

“I do not want or need your apology,” Tony snaps. “You did nothing wrong,” but his tone suggests otherwise. Tony knows, _he knows_ it isn’t fair to Stein. If a lifetime of experience has taught him anything, it is that no one is _owed_ sex.

But the feeling of rejection, of being unwanted, still stings.

Tony sighs, defeated. “What is it you would have me do today?”

“Follow Yinsen’s direction,” Stein says, as he had the last few weeks. “He requires the help more than I.”

“Yes, master.”

Stein flinches.

And with that, Tony exits their shared domicile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike what is commonly depicted, most Vikings have reverse mullet hair styles (long in the front and shorn short in the back) that was nicely combed and styled (which is what most of the characters have in this AU). However, there are cases where a Viking may choose not to cut his hair. The Viking hero Harald Fairhair (originally Harald Shockhead or Tanglehair for obvious reasons) vowed not to cut or comb his hair until he conquered all of Norway as its sole king. When he did so, he cut his hair and became “Fairhair.”
> 
> And yeah, Stein does tell a half-truth here to protect Tony and is believed because he has a good reputation as an honest man. Normally, lying (especially perjury) is pretty much the worst thing a Viking can do and if you were caught could result in you being outlawed, but like canon!Steve, Stein knows sometimes there are worse things than bending an unjust law, and he ultimately believes a person has a right to defend themselves, even if they are a slave. So, he covers for Tony by talking his way around the truth. Hamar did technically come on Balki’s land to deprive Stein of Tony’s services (especially if Tony was harmed and unable to work after the attack; a Viking who rapes another Viking’s thrall and impregnates them typically is forced to pay for the thrall’s upkeep until such a time they can work again, usually defined as an ability to carry a certain amount of weight), and Stein did strike and kill Hamar to protect his property, but he neglects to say Tony struck him first.
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> The sel is the upper part of a hill where Norsemen would graze their lifestock in the autumn months.


	6. O Brother, Where Art Thou?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stein sets sail in hopes of reuniting with his mother, Saraidh, taking Tony along with him. On their journey, they come across Samr the Black, now Samr Wallandason. Tony is confused as to the nature of their relationship, and Samr is confused by Tony’s very presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Stein’s POV.
> 
> Not much is known about Old Norse beliefs pre-Christianity, since much of this was oral and much of what was written down was through Christian scholars who were the target of much of their raids and some descriptions of rituals came from the influential account of a Muslim man, Ibn Fadlan. However, the basics are that there were multiple gods and devotion was largely shown through sacrifice where an animal was slain and then cooked for the sacrificial feast (done during business deals, before journeys, sometimes before holmgangs, at funerals, after bad harvests, etc). There were multiple afterlife destinations, and where you went was not determined by whether you were a good person but how you died. Warriors went to either Valhalla to await Ragnarok where they would fight alongside Odin and the AEsir or to Frejya’s hall Folkvangr. Those who died from disease and old age went to Hel. Some of the dead ended up in Niðvellir. Norsemen believed that the time of anyone’s death was predetermined, but nothing else about life is, so they best seek glory with the time allotted to them.
> 
> When Norsemen died, slaves were beheaded and interred as grave goods to serve them in the next life. Viking chieftains who received ship burials may have had a whole ritual around it, where one of their slaves “volunteered,” was given a lot of wine, raped by the deceased’s friends and allies, and then strangled and stabbed before being lain next to the deceased. Joar’s thralls got away, but they could have expected death if they were to stay, which is why Stein’s mother left in such a hurry, ultimately abandoning him. Stein knows this, but it still hurts.

**Fifteen Years Earlier**

“I’d move here,” Siodhachan whispers to Samr, moving his white tafl board piece. His hand selects an adjacent black piece. “And you can move here,” he hovers it over an occupied space, sweeping back and over another, “or here,” then another, “or here, but if I were you, I would move here,” he knocks his white piece off. “Because that puts me on the run, limits my options.”

Balki had already gone home for the day, and Samr had asked how to win, so they had taken the board up to into the eaves, to play by the fading light filtering through the open vent under the spot where the roof met at a point. They couldn’t stand fully without bumping into the salt pork hung from the ceiling, but they are unlikely to be discovered, high up as they are. Their mothers are below, Wallanda grinding grain in the quern for bread the following morning and Saraidh preparing fish stew for evening meal. The boys stay as quiet as possible to avoid further chores.

Samr squints at the board. “How did you get so good at this?”

Siodhachan shrugs, still concentrating on his next move. “Practice,” he replies. “When you’re as small and sickly as I, then you have the time and inclination, I suppose.”

“You’re getting bigger. I swear you were just at my knee not too long ago, and now you measure to mid-thigh.”

Siodhachan bats him on the shoulder. “I’m not so short as all that.”

“And now you can reach my shoulder,” Samr says in mock surprise. “Will wonders ever cease?”

“…Ass,” but the insult is fond.

They’re resetting the board when their father barges in, drunk and already furious, over what, none of them can be certain. He always seemed angry these days. Samr and Siodhachan freeze in the eaves, all conversation ceasing immediately as together, they draw back further from the ledge, shrinking into the dark corners.

“You,” he points to Wallanda. “To the barn with you. The pigs are squealing up a storm. I think your fool boy must be fightin’ them for scraps–”

Siodhachan sees Samr flinch. He reaches out, squeezes his hand and shakes his head. _It’s not worth it,_ he wants to say. _Joar’s not worth it._

“–so you get out there and control him until I say you can come back. Understand?”

They can hear Wallanda leave, closing the door behind her. Samr looks out the vent to watch her pace outside the entrance of the barn several times before ultimately entering, likely to look for both boys.

What happens next is forever seared into Siodhachan’s memory. It changes him, giving birth to a bottomless well of rage he took years to suppress and sublimate into more useful avenues.

There’s shouting, orders, cries, the ladle banging against the cauldron then falling to the earthen floor. His father knocking his mother into one of the benches, holding her down. The begging.

Samr tackles Siodhachan before he can make it halfway to the ledge. Joar is too drunk, too preoccupied to notice the thump.

“Shhh… Don’t listen, Stein. Don’t listen,” Samr implores him, low and desperate, just within the audible range for someone so close. He tries to cover Siodhachan’s ears against the sounds coming from below, the grunts overlaid and interspersed with cries and pleas, but with how the boy struggles, Samr needs his entire body to hold him down, muffling any verbal retorts with the press of his palm.

Helpless, Siodhachan bites his hand. Samr hisses low, but doesn’t let up, instead commanding him to “Stop it. Lie still.”

Samr has always been the larger and stronger of the two, and perhaps that is why both survive this night. “He’ll kill you. Don’t think he won’t,” he hisses, but Siodhachan, that stubborn boy, doesn’t stop thrashing about, trying to escape his brother’s hold, to go down there and attack their father. Samr knows such an action would certainly spell his death.

“Just… please Stein. Please. Saraidh cried when he killed all her other babes,” he divulges. Siodhachan goes limp, blinking against the hot tears filling his eyes, rolling down his cheek. “You’re the only one left, you hear? That is why you can’t go down there. You have to survive.”

Afterwards, when Joar leaves to call back Wallanda and Saraidh is below quietly weeping, Samr lets him up. Siodhachan takes a swing at him but misses. He curls up in his dark corner and cries, trying to shrug off Samr’s touch when he holds his brother in his arms.

“Go away,” he manages, his tone miserable.

But Samr doesn’t, staying with him until long after evening meal, when the house is asleep and they can finally climb down and head to the barn. Wallanda welcomes both. She doesn’t ask where they have been and neither boy offers. It takes Siodhachan forever to fall asleep, and when he does, he dreams of monsters.

* * *

Siodhachan is angry all the time now.

Ma doesn’t know what is wrong, how to help him. “Siodhachan, what has gotten into you?” she had asked after he had gotten into a fistfight with Balki. He had refused to apologize, leading to their brief separation for a two-week spell.

“Balki’s father got a new thrall last week. Maebh was crying, and Balki said she was overreacting, being dramatic.”

She tilts her head to the side, considering her son’s reaction but drawing a blank as to why it would affect him so. “I do not see why–”

“Is it always like that?” Siodhachan interrupts.

But his mother equivocates, tries to remain neutral. “It can be difficult in a new house, a new land, sure. With thralls, we are always having an… adjustment period, I suppose.”

“Not that. I mean… did– did Balki’s father do something to her too?”

“What–”

“I heard him, Ma,” Siodhachan says, looking her dead in the eye so she cannot misunderstand his meaning. “Three nights past. I heard what he did to you.”

And now his mother looked pained, on the verge of tears. She tries to gather him up, but Siodhachan escapes her embrace.

“Is it always like that?” he demands, simultaneously wanting the truth and for her to tell him no, to lie to him.

“Siodhachan, I–”

He runs then, his mother calling after him. He whips past the barn, past other homesteads, running as hard as he can until he trips over a rock, knocking the wind out of him. He shrivels inward, lies still as he breathes pained and shallow, concentrating on his breathlessness, the pain in his chest and knees where he had fallen, until eventually, excruciatingly, he rises and limps towards a pond to wash off the dirt from his fall.

But when he peers into the surface of the water, he sees his father’s face, young and irate and bereft. He curses and angrily splashes in, his fingers slashing across his reflection, the ripples obscuring any similarities. How can Samr and Wallanda, much less his mother, ever look at him with anything other than loathing?

Sometimes, like when his mother holds him later or when Wallanda offers him a treat or when Samr slows down just a hair during their footraces, Siodhachan thinks he understands.

But sometimes, when he’s feeling low and melancholic, he wonders if that is why they left him behind not six months later.

Joar had been sick for years. (Siodhachan could barely remember a time when he had been well.) For a man who was disappointed in the weak constitution of his offspring, often blaming Saraidh, he himself had tired quickly. He was often nauseous and bloated – sometimes, in his fits, he even accused his thralls of poisoning him though his symptoms lingered even when he cooked for himself for a spell or ate with his fellow man – but then his skin and eyes yellowed. He bruised easily and was often confused. The healer saw it for what it was: long-term ale sickness, and had prescribed an annual sacrifice of two spotted lambs to honor the gods and bring about good health. It had kept him alive for years, but after the last ceremony, Siodhachan had asked for the opposite, offering up his favored tafl board in a sacrificial fire. It was the first time Siodhachan had prayed in earnest for anything.

Perhaps that is why the gods saw fit to grant his wish.

Siodhachan had been learning more refined smithing techniques from Yinsen when Balki had offered to let him stay the night. By morning, Joar was dead of natural causes (or divine intervention as Siodhachan privately believed) and his thralls missing, all three having disappeared in the wake of his death.

The old traditions never specified the gods would require further sacrifice for favors granted.

Siodhachan lost had everything.

“Fear not, brother. You can stay with us from now on.”

Almost everything.

Stein doesn’t know what he would have done without Balki and his family.

He had been despondent for months after. Balki tried to cheer him up, through games and spending time with him, even long after the grieving period. The others had assumed he mourned his father, but Balki knew better.

“I killed him, Balki. I killed Joar,” Stein had confessed to him once while lying under a tree, staring up at passing clouds.

Balki had paused, sat up and looked at Stein askew before telling him tentatively, rationally, “Your father did not die a violent death, and even if he did, you were with me that night beside.”

“I wished for it, and the gods found favor in my cause, and now… They took my family. My home. It was payment for services rendered, but I wanted… I didn’t think–”

“It wasn’t you. You have to know that,” insisted Balki as gently as he could. “He was always going to die on that day. The gods had decreed it the day of his birth, same as you and I. None of us have the power to overwrite their will.”

Stein had sat up at that. “I’m going to find them again, Balki. Ma, Wallanda, and Samr. On this day, I swear it, and never shall I cut my hair until the deed is finished, and I find my home again.”

Balki had covered Stein’s hand with his own and looked at him sadly. “You never lost it.”

“Balki…”

But he is already shaking his head, dismissing his own hurt feelings in favor of Stein’s. After all, Stein is the one who is suffering the greater tragedy. “You should know you’re going to look right silly with long hair. Like an unshorn sheep lost on the _sel_. I pray your future wife knows how to groom your mane well; you’re going to need it.”

Stein had already made his decision with regards to any future wives, but still he responds, “My hair will be awe-inspiring. Mayhap it will start a trend.”

“Doubtful,” declares Balki, chuckling at the image in his mind’s eye.

But he persists still. “Stein the Longhair… What do you think? You can be honest.”

“How about Stein, He Who Doth Not Care?”

Stein looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Really?”

“Oh! No, wait. I got it!” Balki snaps his fingers. “Stein the Maiden Fair. I like that one best. You may use it, no thanks or credit necessary.”

“…Ass.”

* * *

**Present Day**

The farm slows down in the winter months. The women, both free and thrall, spend the day indoors, spinning wool into yarn, weaving and sewing new garments for the household in the upcoming year, while the men carve wooden utensils and furniture to replace those that have worn out. Yinsen and Stein with the new addition of Tuni also forge new tools for the coming spring when the ground thaws and they will sow the fields again. Tuni even has a new project to occupy his time: a surprise enhancement for the homestead. He works on it with Yinsen who assures Stein that Tuni’s design is brilliant, revolutionary even. All will benefit upon its completion and installation in the spring.

And Yinsen is trustworthy even if Tuni is not, so it is unlikely to be a weapon.

For his part, Stein has always appreciated the heat of the forge on days like this, when his breath hangs in the air and Tuni, likely unused to such cold climates, huddles close to him at night warm and cozy to share body heat. Stein supposes such circumstances are liable to confuse the man – sometimes it is easy for him to forget as well – but as long as Tuni is his thrall, it wouldn’t be fair to him for Stein to take advantage. It mattered not how much Stein wanted him. Tuni cannot truly consent when his master is his only viable option for a sexual partner.

It isn’t all work during these dreary days, however. The children build snow-forts and wage war with snowballs, sometimes enticing even the adults to join in their games.

Stein is bringing in more firewood when he is attacked from behind by a soft, cold projectile to the back of his head. He maneuvers his pile to one arm, using his free hand to feel where the snow is now trickling into his shirt, a freezing sluice down his back. He turns to see Tuni hide around a corner.

_If he wants to play that way…_

Stein ducks behind the woodpile, compacting the largest snowball he can from the vicinity. He quickly creeps around the entire pit house to sneak up on Tuni, who is still looking around the bend, trying to locate Stein.

He throws the ball just as Tuni turns, catching a face full of snow. Tuni flails and sputters, but in the next minute, he’s tackling Stein, pushing him onto his back as he piles snow over his laughing face.

“I concede, Tuni!” Stein exclaims, catching his thrall’s arms when he doesn’t stop. “I said I concede. You win the day.”

“And what is my prize?” Tuni asks, refusing to get up unless he finds Stein’s offer sufficient to coax his compliance.

Stein thinks of what he could offer Tuni, the things Tuni had expressed interest in not a month prior… but he can’t, not when Tuni cannot say no, not when Tuni himself is too confused, too vulnerable to ever say yes under such circumstances in any meaningful way. “You get to sleep on the inside, in the warmest spot on the bed,” he offers instead.

“I already do.”

He considers a moment. “Then you do not have to nurse me back to health when I inevitably fall ill from the cold.”

“…Deal.” Tuni dismounts, allowing Stein to stand. “Are you one of those men who become little better than a babe when unwell?”

“I guess you won’t be finding out any time soon, will you?”

In the evenings, the entire household gathers around the hearth of the longhouse to tell stories about gods and monsters, legends, both real and imaginary. Tuni serves Stein his dinner, sitting with him after to settle down for telling.

“…Surtr, the swarthy jotunn, will arise from the south engulfed in flames, carrying a blindingly-bright sword to cleave the heavans and challenge Freyr in the wake of Odin’s death, during the final battle of Ragnarok. The world will be consumed by fire, giving rise to a new world from the sea,” Balki relates the old tale, making shadows upon the wall to illustrate the action, entrancing his nephews and nieces.

“Have you ever seen a black giant, uncle?” His niece, Eira, asks.

“No one has,” Balki replies. “It is not yet the end of days.”

“I’ve heard they exist in the west,” Klintr interjects. “An old acquaintance from the village, Finnr, says he saw them.”

“Finnr tells tall tales,” Nott says, dismissively. “I would not rely on any account of his travels.”

But Klintr insists, “Garth and Haskell vouched for his retelling. They saw them, black Vikings of Gallia, tall like a tree and broad with swarthy skin, hair black as pitch and wooly like a sheep. They speak our language and boast similar attire and manners of speech.”

That piques Stein’s interest. “Black Vikings you say?”

Having found a believer in the group, Klintr gives him his full attention. “Yes. They near chased them out of their village, just barely escaped with their lives, he said.”

Nott simply rolls her eyes, but Balki is looking at Stein, likely understanding the root of his inquiry.

And so later, when the others are getting ready to turn in for the night, Balki stops Stein on his way out. Stein waves Tuni ahead, instructing him to go on without him; he won’t be long.

“You are going, are you not?” Balki asks after Tuni has turned the corner, “to Gallia?”

Stein crosses his arms. “You heard Klintr. Black Vikings. Samr could be among their number.”

“I heard that his friend barely made it out by the skin of his teeth.”

“I have to try,” Stein insists. “I will set out in the summer, after the planting when the weather is fair.”

Balki sighs. “I cannot stop you. Just… come home safe; be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“What? Do you think we met only yesterday?” He rubs the back of his neck. “You and I both know you rarely are. But just this once, promise me you’ll at least try.”

Stein agrees, but it does little to alleviate Balki’s fears.

* * *

In spring, they sow the fields with seed and spread manure to fertilize the soil. Stein and Tuni both help build up the walls enclosing the hayfield with sod and stone to both protect it from hungry animals and mark the boundaries of their crop. Tuni also completes his long-awaited secret project: a system of steel-alloy pipes made of iron infused with carbon from animal bones to service the outdoor baths. It allows them to fill the tub with hot water and drain it after, negating the backbreaking work of collecting, heating, and carrying water for the weekly bath. Balki is highly impressed the first time he uses it, complimenting Tuni and Yinsen on their craftsmanship.

“It was Tuni’s design,” Yinsen divulges. “He is quite bright.”

Stein has never been more proud of his thrall, and Tuni basks in his praise, happy to be of service to Stein, to share the fruits of his intellect with someone who will not abuse him for the knowledge of what he can do.

For his part, Stein has made up his mind as to who will be the best candidate as Tuni’s guardian while he is away, to nurture his talent and help it grow.

And so come summer, Stein packs up for his journey to Gallia, advising Tuni to mind Yinsen while he is away.

But Tuni is not having it, packing his things the very same day.

Stein stands at the door of the pit house. “Tuni–” he begins.

“I am going with you,” his thrall interrupts. “It is decided; no need to claim otherwise. I have already packed in fact.” He holds up his satchel to show Stein. “Aoibhe taught me how to roll my extra clothes small and compact.” He raises a brow. “Are you going to be the one to tell her that her efforts have gone to waste, hm?”

“…Fine.”

* * *

With their guide, Klintr’s seafaring friend from the next village over, they sail out during the first days of summer, when the weather is fair and seas favorable.

It does nothing for Tuni’s seasickness, which returns in full force.

“Just– just let me die,” Tuni moans, rather dramatically as he heaves over the side yet again. Stein rubs his back, sympathetic to his plight.

Finnr is less so. “You’ll be feeding the fishes either way, boy,” he comments, earning a dirty look from Stein. “It is my understanding he is the one who insisted he come. The fault lies with hisself.”

Finnr has a point, but still.

Tuni rubs his face, wobbly and abnormally pale for his complexion. “I– I believe I have it under con–” he leans over the rail once again, dry-heaving but nothing comes up, having already emptied his belly of its contents.

* * *

It takes four days to reach Gallia. As they near their destination, Stein grows fidgety with nervous excitement for the upcoming reunion. Would his mother have stayed among the dark-skinned Vikings as well? Did they miss him? Had they thought of him often in those fifteen long years away?

“Their settlement is about three miles southwest of here,” Finnr points with his arm in the right direction. “About thereabouts. Follow the river, and you can’t miss the lot of them. You don’t normally see those type of folk this far north, but I suppose everyone travels in this day and age.”

Stein dons his satchel and straps on his shield on his back as well as his axe at his side. “Thank you, Finnr.”

But the man is already shaking his head. “Don’t thank me yet. They don’t take kindly to types like you and I. We’ll be waiting here for the day, like you paid us to, but come this time tomorrow, we’re leaving you for dead, you hear?”

And so Stein heads downriver, towards the unknown, hope full in his chest.

“So, you have reason to believe your family is among a tribe of runaway slaves?” Tuni reiterates.

“It’s as good a guess as any,” replies Stein, but now he is looking at Tuni oddly.

“What? Is there a blot upon my face?”

Stein step in close, his hands reaching into his bag for his tools. “I should take that off you,” he says, gently fingering Tuni’s iron collar marking him a thrall, trying to maneuver the clasp towards the front so he can better remove it. “Be still for me.”

In the next moment, Stein tenses, moving Tuni behind him in the seconds before he is attacked by a cabal of men, most Gaelic or Slavic, some Moors, all converging on him. He flips his shield around to block their spears and axes. He knocks the first man out with a good right hook, then brandishes his own axe to return volley, chopping the spears of the second and third in half before elbowing first one then kicking down another. A fourth manages to disarm his axe, but he catches him hard on the chin with the sharp edge of his shield. However, with so many combatants and having to consider Tuni’s safety at his back, Stein is overwhelmed and brought to his knees shortly after.

Tuni is kicking and screaming, spewing colorful insults that would have made Stein blush in other circumstances as they pull him away. Stein tries to lunge in his direction before a hard boot comes down on his face, pushing him onto his backside.

Stein spits blood, fumbling as he rises to a kneel. “Get off him!” he commands.

“We don’t answer to any master,” the man raises Stein’s axe, the blade glinting in the sun, but before he can drop it down on Stein’s head, he is distracted by a commotion to his left. Tuni bites down on his captor’s arm hard enough to draw blood. The man yelps and lets him go, and Tuni attempts to fling himself atop Stein, who catches him and sweeps him in close, folding his own body over Tuni and scrunching his eyes closed in anticipation of the killing blow.

It does not come.

He cracks open an eye to find the others looking at them with surprise.

“The little bitch bit me!” the man who had attempted to hold Tuni advances on them.

“Come closer. Plenty more where that came from!” Tuni tries to pull away and put himself in front, like the suicidal idiot Stein has decided he is, but Stein holds him back.

“You are a thrall,” the man holding Stein’s axe says.

“Yes,” Tuni confirms, looking ready to fight that man as well with little more than his bare hands.

He points the axe at Stein. “And that one is your master.”

“Yes.”

“We aim to liberate you, young one. Step aside and you are free.”

“No!” Tuni clings to Stein, unwilling to let him go, knowing they will try to separate them once again.

But his master has already done the math. Ten combatants, half injured but the others hale and healthy. There is no way both of them are going to make it out of this alive. “Do it, Tuni,” he urges him, peeling him off. Tuni turns to him with wide eyes. “I’m a dead man walking, but you? You can still walk away from this. You can live.”

Tuni slaps him.

Stein falls back on his ass, touching his cheek in surprise. “Tuni–”

Tuni leans forward to slap him again, tears welling up in his eyes. “Are you insane?” he says through grit teeth. “They are going to kill you, Stein!”

“Stein?” A dark Norseman steps out from the group. He walks up to the man with the axe. He gives him a nod, lightly pushing him back, signaling him to stand down. He looks down at Stein, narrowing his eyes as his head cocks to the side, as if trying to get a different angle on the stranger’s face for closer examination.

Stein is doing the same, but he comes to his conclusion more quickly. “Samr? Is that you?”

The man’s eyes widen. He holds out his arm with his fist raised, and the others visibly relax their hold on their weapons, but their faces are one of confusion.

“I know this one,” he says. “He is my _bróðir_.”

But the axeman protests, “Samr… he is a slaver. That man with him bears the collar of a thrall.”

“And he put himself in harm’s way to protect a thrall who can also strike him with impunity, without even a trace of fear. The youth himself refuses to leave his side, even if staying means certain death,” Samr argues, squaring his shoulders towards the other man. “I will vouch for him. Anything he does is a reflection on me and will be on my head.”

That seems to satisfy the dissenter, who falls back in line. “I will keep you to your word, Samr Wallandason.”

“Come this way,” Samr says, leading them down a beaten path, further inland, away from the river.

Tuni clings to Stein, having decided he can best serve as human body armor, but his expression is one of confusion. “So…” he begins, “Is there another meaning for _bróðir_ or…”

“Samr is my blood brother if that is what you’re asking,” Stein replies, matter-of-factly.

“Well… I guess I can sort of see the family resemblance–” if Tuni squints to the point of near-blindness.

“I take after our father. Samr is fortunate he does not.” Though it had taken a long time for Stein to recognize it.

When they reach their village, they enter Samr’s pit house, where his mother, Wallanda, sits stewing a pot at the hearth while a younger Moorish woman grinds grain in the quern. At the sight of Stein, Wallanda drops her ladle with a soft exclamation of “Joar,” but in the next moment, she backs up towards the far end of the house, pulling a knife from the prep table and pointing it at the intruder, placing herself in front of the young woman at the quern.

Samr is already running interference between them. “Ma!” He reaches her. “Ma, this is Stein. Remember Stein from before?”

“Stein was a scrawny child. He would not grow to be so broad,” she says, her distrustful gaze not straying from the man.

Tuni looks between Stein and the frightened woman. “You were not exaggerating when you said you were nigh unrecognizable as a babe. Did everyone think you would grow up weak?”

“Some thought I would not grow up at all,” Stein concedes.

“Ma, this is… Tuni, isn’t it?” Samr turns to Tuni who simply nods. “Tuni would like to see how you make your famous stew.”

“I would?”

“Yes,” Samr answers for him. “Tuni is going to stay here and keep you and Aurya company, while Stein and I go out back.”

“All right. Leave me with the women while the men talk. That is not patronizing in the slightest,” Tuni mumbles to himself. “The thrall should learn to cook. How progressive.”

“Tuni…”

“I’m not complaining. I said it was nice.”

Stein decides to drop it, let Tuni have his sulk while he and Samr catch up.

He hears the young woman Samr had called Aurya approach Tuni. “Now about that collar…”

* * *

They settle in the garden, trading small talk and updates about mutual acquaintances and friends back home.

“How is Balki these days?” Samr asks. “He is well, I hope.”

“Yes, he married recently to a woman from the village over. Nott Ivarsdottir. I have never seen him so smitten. You know he nearly got into a duel with her brother over some love poetry he wrote her? He said Balki was dishonoring his sister by sending such correspondence.” Stein grins at the memory. It had been a more serious situation at the time, but hilarious in hindsight. “I had to go with him first he met her father to negotiate a marriage contract. Klintr was nearly apoplectic at the development.”

Samr rubs the back of his head, chuckling softly. “He has settled down, accepted it since, I hope.”

“He moved in with them.”

“Ah.”

They segue into Samr’s life since he left Joar’s homestead.

“When we came here, it was only an outpost, mostly freedmen, you understand, but we built it up, more came… freed and not-so-free. We have to be careful who we let in,” Samr states, his tone suggestive.

Stein knows his brother is dancing around the issue, specifically his ownership of Tuni. For him, it must be a painful reminder that though many things may change, some things unfortunately did not. Samr is clearly conflicted – confused even – about the situation with Tuni, about what it meant about Stein’s character as he aged.

For his part, Stein honestly does not know how to explain it to Samr, who wore the collar of a thrall for so much of his life…

Because in the end, there really is no justification for Tuni’s enslavement at his hands.

“I am really happy to see you, Stein. When we left… let’s just say I am glad that you are well,” Samr says, clasping his shoulder. “I would love it if you could stay, but some of the others, Affan and Curragh, they do not want you here, and with you looking like you do… it isn’t good for my mother. I’m sorry.”

Stein knew he couldn’t stay but to hear it aloud stings. Still, he assures Samr, “I understand. I know what he did to her, what he was planning to do to you both. I know why you left.”

He doesn’t have to clarify who _he_ is; they both know.

“…I hated that _níðingr_ , you know. I spent so long trying to please him, and–” Samr shrugs, though Stein can tell their father’s rejection hurt him still, even after all these years.

“He was an ass, a drinker of sheep’s piss, rotting of ale sickness in the depths of Hel,” Stein says, his tone harsh and forceful. “May his corpse be dug up and eaten by wolves.”

“Hm,” Samr hums his agreement, but he appears disquieted as he presses on the main issue at hand, the proverbial elephant in the room, “Then why, Stein? What are you doing with Tuni?”

“It’s not what you think,” he says too quickly, internally wincing at the defensiveness in his tone, the clichéd excuse.

Samr’s brows shoot up. “Really? Because I think he’s a thrall you picked up on a raid in Britannia judging by his manner of speaking. Tell me I am mistaken.” _Please._

But Stein is no liar. “It was Bath if you desire specifics,” he admits instead.

“Like that changes the gravity of the situation.”

“I just… I needed someone to keep house, sweep up, milk the cows, that sort of thing.” Having human companionship also didn’t hurt, and if he found Tuni pleasing to the eye as well, then what of it? Stein will never act on his attraction, so there is no harm intended, now or ever.

“Then get married,” Samr says as if the solution is obvious, as if marriage was ever an option for a man like Stein.

“I am never marrying,” he replies with some vehemence.

That takes his brother aback. “You cannot be serious. They will deem you a _fuðflogi_ , guilty of _ergi_. What if you are outlawed or die fighting a _holmgang_?”

But Stein is resistant to the idea, had already made his decision long ago. “I care not. I have nothing to offer a woman but the pain of an empty bosom,” he explains, but he can see Samr’s bewilderment clear on his face. It is an uncommon declaration after all, so he further clarifies, “Never will I have children, Samr. By choice, not the intervention of the gods – do not gaze upon me as if I am impotent – Joar’s bloodline, the one he chose to acknowledge… It ends with me.”

“That’s a dangerous road you travel, brother.” Samr leans up against the house, affecting nonchalance though Stein can see the tension in his shoulders at the thought of his brother’s impending death. “And Stein the Longhair… That is how you choose to style yourself these days.”

“Better than the alternative, Samr Wallandason.” He will never be Joarson again. He does not have to clarify why.

Samr nods, accepting the validity of his choice. He had made a similar one when he had shed his original epithet and forsook his father upon rebranding. And yet, “…If you want to be better than Joar, you must not replicate his actions, and Tuni–”

Stein sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I know it’s not fair to Tuni, but I needed someone, and I think he did, too, at the time. It truly isn’t what you’re thinking. I did not enslave a free man. He was a thrall in his prior life, and– and never have I touched him, not in that way, not how Joar– He’s safe with me,” he affirms.

“Even a born slave longs to be free.” Samr understands this intimately, trying to find a way to impress the lesson on his wayward brother. “You know how I live? My mother and me and my wife? Every morning, I come out here, in the fresh air, tend to our garden, harvest my own vegetables and grains that Aurya bakes into our daily bread. We spend time together, laugh and make merry. My mother minds some of the neighborhood children and lives out her golden years in peace and comfort.”

“That is quite the life,” Stein has to admit. Better than the one they had left in the wake of their father’s death.

“Yes, we are happy here.”

“I am glad for you,” Stein says, and it’s true. Samr had been a calculating child by necessity, always looking over his shoulder to avoid their father’s whip, and now, to be able to relax, to be free… “I know it’s been a while, but… Saraidh… Do you know what became of her?”

Samr looks as if he knew the question was coming. “I have not seen her in near fifteen years, not since last we parted, but your mother… she loved you; you should know that. I wouldn’t want you to think… She didn’t want to leave you behind. None of us did. She wanted to retrieve you from Bard’s house, but… there was only so much time before Joar’s death would have been discovered.”

“I know you couldn’t have stayed. It would have been too dangerous.” Stein had figured as much. Many thralls did not fare well after their master’s death, especially if that master never acknowledged the children she bore for him. “So, my mother… she is not here?” He had hoped this would be the end. That they had stayed together and Samr would know–

“She returned to her people, to a village along the eastern coast,” he replies. “In Brega, I believe.”

_Brega?_

“Would she settle so close to Dublin by choice?”

Samr looks pensive. “Mayhap it was… familiar to her. She spent near thirteen years, almost half her life, amongst the Norsemen. Knew the language, the culture, far better than that of her fatherland, I’d say.” He should know. Wallanda herself could have returned to the Iberian Peninsula, but they had settled here, among others who had lived among the Norsemen and assimilated to their ways. “But your mother was kind to us, and… well, when you find her again, give her my regards and well wishes.”

“I will.”

Samr embraces him, pats his back. “Goodbye, Stein.”

“And fare thee well, brother.” Stein holds on, just a touch longer, before they part.

“We will see each other again.”

“That is always the hope.”

* * *

“…so stew requires salt?” a collarless Tuni asks, stirring the pot stewing over the hearth.

Wallanda laughs. “Everything requires salt, child.”

“Huh.” Tuni looks over when he hears the door open to see Samr and Stein walk through. “Hail stranger, how did the family reunion go?”

Wallanda freezes, still wary around Stein.

Stein knows he cannot stay, nor should he come back, not for a while yet.

“We should be off,” he says, collecting his things as Tuni readies himself to leave. He’s about to take the collar with him when Stein stops him, shakes his head no, turning to his host to say, “Thank you, Wallanda, for your hospitality.”

Wallanda’s Norse is heavily-accented but clear. “Safe travels, Stein the Longhair and Antonius of Bath.”

* * *

They return to Finnr before nightfall, where Stein tries to convince the man to sail to Dublin. Finnr balks at the change in iternerary, having not planned to sail so far north. Stein convinces him instead to drop them off at Sveinn’s Island near Bath where they can charter a freight ship to the metropolitan hub of Dublin further north. They will find their own way back home, Stein insists.

“All right,” Finnr agrees, “but if you do not make it back, I am telling Klintr that you were killed in an ambush and your thrall there fell off the side of the boat while vomiting and drowned.”

It is many more days at sea for Tuni, but the man tries not to complain… much. He knows how important this journey is to Stein, and it was he who had insisted on accompanying him. Tuni is not completely unreasonable.

“After this quest, never will I step on a boat again,” he moans miserably.

“It will pass, Tuni,” Stein says, rubbing his back. “Just stare at the horizon.”

Tuni tries to do just that.

“We will be on Sveinn’s Island soon,” Stein tries to mollify him. “That is close to your home.”

Tuni looks up, still slightly pale. “My home is right here. With you,” he insists.

Stein looks into his eyes, seeing that the sentiment is sincere. It is a nice moment between the two of them quickly spoiled when Tuni gets a wild look in his eye then scrambles to lean over the rail, heaving once again.

From Dublin, they travel several hours by foot to Brega, where Stein introduces himself by his Gaelic name and asks the locals about a woman, Saraidh, who would have arrived fifteen years prior. Tuni looks at him questioningly the first time Stein speaks in the native tongue of the locals.

“You speak Gaelic?”

“I told you my mother was Gaelic,” Stein explains. “She would speak it to me, but it has been so long, I likely sound like a small child by my manner of speech, but it’s enough to get by if all I seek are directions.”

“With this lot, I doubt you will get far.” Tuni rubs the back of his neck nervously, feeling unnerved by the stares they draw. “What are the chances they will rat on one of their own – a runaway slave at that – to a large, burly Norseman claiming to be her son?”

“I am hoping that when they tell her who is looking for her, she will volunteer to come see for herself,” Stein replies, before adding, softer this time: “I hope I am recognizable enough when she does.”

They are approached not too long after, but not by a woman. The stranger is older with white peppering his dark hair, short like Tuni but gruff of expression. He does not seem pleased to see either of them.

“Are you Siodhachan?” he addresses Tuni, who only looks at him, confusion clear on his face.

“I am Siodhachan,” Stein interjects, drawing the stranger’s gaze. “My mother was Saraidh, a former slave in the land of _Lochlann_. This is my companion, Tuni from Britannia. He does not speak Gaelic.”

The man squints up at Stein, as if trying to verify the resemblance to his mother there. Stein wishes he had shaved. He is fair like his mother had been and has her cheekbones, but the resemblance is more apparent without the cover of his beard.

“I was at a friend’s house the night Joar died, the night she left,” Stein divulges more details, hoping to convince the man. “She left with two Black Moor slaves, Wallanda and her son, my brother, Samr. Samr… he said she went to Brega, but he hasn’t seen her in near fifteen years.”

“All right, lad,” the man says, sounding almost defeated. “I will believe you are who you say. The name’s Brin. Your mother… she had said you would come and asked me to welcome ye in our home, even if I am having my own reservations about it. She had asked it of myself in her final days.”

And now Stein’s heart stutters. “She is dead?” he manages.

“Aye,” he replies. “Saraidh died two years past. An ailment of the lungs it was. Bled for a season then up and quit on her, they did. But she asked me to look out for you after, to bring you to our home and show you how she lived, to tell ye” – his voice cracks now – “to tell ye she were happy, that I made her happy. I tried my hardest, and I hoped it were enough. And she asked, so here I am, fulfilling her last wish now.”

From his side, Tuni touches his shoulder. “Stein, are you alright?” He sounds concerned. “What is he saying?”

So Stein explains in Norse, “He says my Ma’s dead these two years past. He is her husband, and he’s taking us to their home.”

“Oh Stein, I am so sorry,” Tuni says, reaching down to squeeze his hand in support. Stein barely registers it. Numbly, he only stares forward at the back of his mother’s husband’s head, and if his vision blurs, he says nothing about it, just woodenly follows, just placing one foot in front of the other one step at a time.

* * *

“I don’t think they like us,” Tuni whispers to Stein once they enter the domicile to a rather chilly reception.

There is a young boy, small and sandy-haired and skinny, looking up at them with a frown, as well as a collection of men, likely friends and brothers of their host. They all wear the same mask of neutral disapproval that only deepens at Tuni’s usage of Norse. One of them stares a touch too hard at Tuni, his eyes slipping down to the collar tan circling his neck, indicating his most recent status despite the lack of iron to mark him.

“And where did you pick up that one? At the markets of Dublin?” the man asks, his face a sneer. “Gift for the family, he is?”

“Quiet, Conn. You keep your opinions to yourself,” their host nearly barks. “This is Saraidh’s boy from back east come for a visit.”

“With a slave in tow,” Conn points to Tuni, who shrinks behind Stein, not liking the look of the man. “He’s got the look, the boy does.”

“I shouldn’t have come,” Tuni murmurs.

“It’s all right,” Stein tells him, trying to calm him. “He is not angry at you.” _About you_ now that is a different story.

“Who is your companion, lad?” Brin asks, his suspicion growing as he gets a good look at Tuni and sees what his friend sees, that with his cropped hair, relatively plain tunic, and most-damningly the ring of light skin circling his neck, Tuni would not exactly belong in Norse society.

Stein has always been an honest man.

“He is mine,” he admits. “He is my thrall.”

Brin’s countenance morphs into one of anger as he stalks up to Stein. “Get out!” he demands, pushing him back towards the door, nearly spitting in his face with anger. “Your mother – God rest her soul – she would have been ashamed of you had she lived!”

Stein quickly retreats as Brin shuts the door in their faces. His shoulders haunch, and he looks crestfallen as he collects a startled Tuni to head back towards Dublin, their journey cut short by his own choices, specifically his decision to enslave the man by his side all those months ago. He had known it was wrong then; this is only the fruit of his own actions.

“Stein…” Tuni is saying, pulling at his sleeve, as he ambles away from his mother’s home, feeling lost and bereft. “Stein, are you okay?” When Stein remains silent, Tuni huffs, “I didn’t want to say anything, but your family seems like a drove of jackasses. I mean… what kind of reception was that for a long-lost relation? They–”

“They were right.”

Tuni is silent for a beat. “About…?”

But Stein doesn’t answer, wallowing in his own mistakes, his own misery.

A young girl drops down to the road from a tree just ahead of them, bringing the duo to an abrupt halt.

“ _Dia duit_ ,” she says, her hand up in a wave. “You are Siodhachan, are you not?”

“…Yes,” Stein replies, uncertain who this girl may be, but he has a good guess, considering her near-runty size, blond hair, and sallow cheeks.

“Da locked me in the barn, said a dangerous guest might be coming, but I crawled out the window, I did. It weren’t fair Aodghan got to meet you when I couldn’t. I’m older than himself, you see, but I’m a girl so,” she says brightly, smiling wide. She toes the dirt, looking at her feet. “Mamaí… Mamaí always said you’d come. My Siodhachan is stubborn, she’d say. Your brother’s coming, and if I be among the angels when he does, I want you give him this.” She hands him a small leather bag full of tafl pieces made of bone and wood.

Stein pulls out the largest one, a king with his face as he had been as a child made of antler bone.

But the girl is not done. “And tell him…Tell him his Ma never forgot him and she’s sorry. She’s sorry she couldn’t wait for him, back then and now both,” she says, tucking a golden lock behind her ear as she looks up. “She loved you, you should know. Thought about you every day.” She looks up, cocking her head to the side, considering Stein. “Said you’d be smaller, she did.”

Ma never did get to see Stein grow up.

He pockets the tafl pieces. “Thank you…”

“Sadhbh.”

“Sadhbh,” he repeats. “I was a wee child like you. You’ll grow, same as I.”

“You won’t be coming ‘round here again, will you?” she asks, her voice now sad.

Sadhbh’s father had made it pretty clear Stein is not welcome back. “No, I do not think it likely. I don’t belong here. I am _Lochlannach_.”

“And _Éireannach_ as Ma would say.”

“…Yes, she would be saying that, wouldn’t she?”

“Well… If you ever get the inclination, you know where to find us now,” she looks past Stein, towards her home. “I should be getting back. Da will be missing me soon.”

And with that, she leaves.

Stein and Tuni continue onward, both quietly pensive.

They’re a good two miles away by the time Stein deigns to speak again. “I used to dream of her all the time – still do, in truth, from time to time,” he says. Tuni doesn’t look up, but he’s listening as Stein continues, “And in my dreams, I save her. I stop my father from hurting her.”

“You said you were small when he died. I’m sure you did what you could,” Tuni replies.

Stein hums, choosing not to disagree with Tuni’s assessment. He could have done more – he thinks of the hook in the ceiling, the hammer in the blacksmith shop, his axe half-buried in a stump near the woodpile – but what he wants to discuss is not his failure of action, but of imagination. “Perhaps, but I never dreamed of what would come after,” he admits, “because I could never conceive of her outside the village. I couldn’t imagine she could have… _this_. This whole other life where she was truly free. A husband who loved her. Other children. A home away from the Norsemen…” – his voice grows small – “Away from me.”

Tuni stops in his tracks, forcing Stein to come to a standstill as well. He looks troubled, his mouth opening and closing on nothing, then: “Stein… I’m sure she did not wish to leave you. I don’t know what that man said back there, but don’t believe she did. Please don’t be sad.”

But Tuni is missing the point. “I’m not sad,” Stein insists, rubbing his temple. “I am happy she had this. I am glad she was well and happy herself.” He does not sound happy. “Samr too. I think that’s what he was trying to tell me last we met. He is happy. His mother is as well, as was mine.” A breath, a pause. “And you could be, too.”

Tuni’s forehead scrunches in confusion. “I am happy.”

“Are you truly, Tuni?”

He considers it. “…Yes.”

But Stein remains unconvinced. “It is not a fair question, from a master to his thrall.”

Tuni’s face twists into a snarl. “That is it, Stein!” He grabs his master’s kyrtill, pulling him down to his level. “I am tired of you telling me how I feel! Why even ask if you are not going to trust the answer? Don’t I know my mind and heart best? If I say I am happy, then I am happy. If I tell you I lo–” he lets go, flustered and frustrated. “Never you mind that.”

So, Stein re-phrases the sentiment. “It is not a fair question because I have bound you to me, forced you by my side. Your choices are to be happy about it or suffer. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to live like this. You’re free, Tuni. I release you,” Stein steps away from him, granting him physical space to mirror the metaphorical. “You are no longer my thrall. You can have a different life, like my Ma, like Samr and Wallanda. You can have a wife and children, a real family, a real home. This whole other life can be yours, and you can be truly happy.”

Tuni rubs his neck, free of its collar for several days now. He feels strangely lighter without the yoke of enslavement, but–

“And what makes you think I want a wife? That I want children? I want what I have always wanted, Stein,” Tuni steps forward, wrapping his arms around Stein’s back, holding him. “And that is you.”

Stein wants to tell him that he doesn’t know what he is saying, that he can’t possibly know what he is giving up having never been free, but instead he asks, “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

Stein bites his lip, releasing it after a spell. Tuni can’t seem to look away, entranced by the motion, the red puff of his bottom lip.

“You are still free, Tuni,” he reiterates, “No matter what you choose.”

“And I choose to follow you, to be with you the rest of my days–” he rests his head against his former master’s shoulder. “I can make you happy, Stein, if you will have me.”

Stein shivers, the implications of what Tuni is offering clear. “Then let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note about Balki’s tale: Surtr is described as a “swarthy” (black) Jotunn in Norse mythology.
> 
> Note about Brega: The Irish kingdom of Brega is an old Irish kingdom north of Dublin and one of the first to be hit with Viking raids in 790 AD. It was home to the Hill of Tara, where the High King of Ireland was proclaimed. It was also located just north of the Viking Kingdom of Dublin (established circa 850 AD). Gallia was the name of modern-day France until the early middle ages (around 987 AD when it attained its current name).
> 
> Both Samr and Stein disavow their father and make peace with who they are. Stein chooses to take on the name Stein the Longhair instead of identifying as his father’s son (Stein Joarson), while Samr drops his original epithet (Samr the Black) and identifies as his mother’s son (Samr Wallandason). Although they are brothers and they do love each other, Stein looks too much like their father, and that distresses Samr’s mother, so he can’t really stay. Samr ultimately reminds Stein that even being a “benevolent” slaveowner is still wrong.
> 
> Also, the bit about love poetry is true. It was popular but also very illegal and had the potential to make the woman’s families very upset with many stories about family members who tried to kill their daughter’s admirers.
> 
> As for Definitions:
> 
> Níðingr is a villain/vile person. 
> 
> Fuðflogi means “flees from the vagina” and was a term for men who chose not to marry. 
> 
> Argr/Ragr (adj) or ergi (noun) is an insult meaning unmanly and was one of three words (the other being stroðinn or sorðinn (or the variation sansorðinn which basically translates to ‘demonstrably sodomized’)) that were grounds for straight-up murder with impunity or a duel (holmgang). So when Samr worries that others will call Stein’s refusal to marry argr/ergi, he is essentially worried about Stein ending up dead. Stein, being his characteristically stubborn self, doesn’t give a shit.
> 
> While it is difficult to know what the Vikings thought of homosexuality (since most of what we know came from Christian writers in the late Viking period), it is thought that they didn’t really care about what other sexual partners a man had as long as he had a wife and children. Possibly, there might have been more stigma attached to being the receptive partner (and there are accounts of Viking raiders raping both women and men when they cycled through a town), but again, it’s difficult to tell how a relationship such as the one Stein and Tony form in this fic would have been received. Certainly, Steve’s refusal to marry and have offspring would have been shocking even if a sexual relationship between two men wouldn’t have been.
> 
> Dia duit is an old Irish greeting meaning “May God be with you.”
> 
> Lochlannach is a Scandanavian in Irish Gaelic but also raider or Viking.
> 
> Éireannach is an Irish person in Irish Gaelic.


	7. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Stein and Tony find what they have been searching for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, if you’ve been wondering where the smut is in this fic, it’s in this chapter, but I’m going to warn you, the first sex scene might be a little triggering because Tony doesn’t know how to have sex. I mean… he knows the mechanics of how to get someone else off, and he’s good at it, but the act of sex has always been more about survival than personal pleasure for him, and that doesn’t go away once he shares it with someone who actually loves and cares about him. The first attempt is basically Tony whump as is some of the second, but just know that they do figure it out eventually.
> 
> This chapter also briefly describes the Viking ceremony to free a thrall (called the Frelsis-öl), which includes the sacrifice of a sheep (scene is not explicit) that is eaten afterwards during a feast with Stein as the guest of honor.

Stein procures a room for them at an inn in Dublin the night before their chartered ship sets sail for the homeland. He asks for and receives a flask of olive oil, presumably for bathing, but the woman who sells it to them gives Tony a cursory glance as she hands it over, noting the lighter skin circumventing his neck indicative of his recent status, even minus the presence of the iron collar. They must be used to it here, owners trying out their new slaves as soon as money changes hands. If Tony had been fresh to the trade, he might have blushed, but as it is, this is not new territory for one such as he.

The love for his partner, the want, now that is new. It buzzes under his skin, makes him feel giddy, like he is going to laugh or cry; he is uncertain. Perhaps both. And when they race up to their rooms (at a speedy stroll more appropriate to the environment than a full out sprint), Tony reaches the door first.

“You let me win,” he playfully accuses his paramour, back pressed to the door.

Stein plants his palms on either side of Tony, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “I suppose this means I will serve you first.” Tony nearly stumbles backward when the man takes advantage of the distraction to unlock the door behind him and swings it open, but Stein catches him before he can fall in. “Careful.”

He helps Tony over the threshold, locking the door after.

Tony is on him then, nipping at his chin, kissing him full and deep as they shed their clothing, nearly falling over and laughing when they try to remove their boots without breaking contact.

Tony catches the flask that nearly falls when Stein carelessly discards his satchel. “I’m going to need that.”

Stein hums then hefts Tony up by his thighs.

“Whoa,” Tony wraps an arm around the man’s neck and locks his ankles behind his back for leverage.

“And I’m going to need all this,” Stein says, rather cheekily, carrying him naked to the bed.

“Ooooh, that’s just not fair.”

He lays Tony down, hovering over him as he kisses him. Tony fumbles with the flask, uncorking it to pour clumsily over Stein’s fingers, spilling some on his own stomach.

“You are making a mess,” Stein mumbles his complaint softly against Tony’s neck, his lips dragging down towards his chest as he breeches Tony with a single finger.

Tony gasps. “That is– I believe that is the idea.” But now Stein is mouthing over his chest, his lips closing over a pert nipple. Tony tenses but doesn’t stop him.

Stein looks up at him. “Is something the matter?” His finger stills. “Do you want to stop?”

Tony shakes his head. “No,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want to be with you.” _I want to give this to you._

He must see something in Tony’s face, because he withdraws his finger. Tony clenches to try to keep him inside but to no avail. “Then what is the matter?”

“Nothing.” Tony nudges Stein’s lower back with his feet, silently urging him to continue.

Stein moves upward instead, tucking Tony’s head under his chin and simply holding him. “We don’t have to do anything if you are not ready, if you do not want to.”

“I want to,” Tony confirms yet again before tentatively asking, “Just… no bites?” When Stein does not answer immediately, Tony is already walking back his request. “Or not right now. Mayhap when I am good and loose, when I am ready to take your cock.” Maybe then Tony will be so turned on, he will barely notice when Stein does it anyway despite his reservations.

“No bites,” Stein agrees, before gently murmuring into his hair. “It does not have to hurt. Let me show you, sweetheart.”

And Tony will do anything for him if only to hear Stein call him _sweetheart_ again.

Stein is nuzzling his neck, his finger slipping back into Tony’s entrance, gently stretching him, slicking him up for what is to come.

Tony captures his lips then as he thrusts into Stein’s hand, pressing his erection between their bodies, sliding up against Stein’s stomach. Carefully, Stein adds more oil to slide a second finger alongside his first. Tony gasps and bears down to Stein’s knuckles with a deeply-satisfied moan. Stein’s breathing deepens as well as he kisses Tony’s temple, whispering reassurances and dirty filthy things, telling Tony how tight he is and how he can’t wait to sheath his cock in that warm heat, how Tony is so good for letting him. Tony will let him, right? He will let Stein be sweet to him, let him stretch him out loose, show Tony how wonderful it can feel until he is the only one Tony wants inside him.

 _Too late,_ Tony thinks. Stein is already the only one he wants. And if Tony plays his cards right, Tony will be the only one that gets to see Stein like _this_ , panting and vulnerable and wanting.

Tony reaches down to lovingly stroke Stein’s erection. Stein shudders, kisses him again.

“I want you,” Tony pants against his lips when they break apart. “I’m ready to take you.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart?”

At Tony’s nod, Stein removes his fingers, repositions them so Tony is spread with his knees parted and thighs on either side of Stein’s hips. He sinks in for the very first time, slowly, fluidly with little thrusts to allow Tony to adjust to the intrusion. It feels good for Tony, so full, and better yet, the man above him is softly chanting his name. He knows who he’s with and that person is Tony. Neither Alwin nor Edward. Not Harold.

Tony.

Stein hovers over him, his lips on his neck traveling up his chin, reaching his mouth to swallow Tony’s moans as he bottoms out. True to his word, Stein uses his tongue, his lips and soft gentle touches – no teeth – and Tony is grateful for his lover’s consideration.

He holds Tony, cradles him like something precious, his hips quickening, thrusting deeper, harder into Tony, sliding over the sweet spot within, making him cry out. His hand snakes between them, grasps Tony’s erection, working over it as he moves inside.

The heat pools deep in his belly, on the cusp of overflowing, but Tony knows he shouldn’t. Not yet. Not when Stein isn’t near done. He tries to adjust, but Stein isn’t giving him anywhere to go, Tony’s hips angled up, the man’s hand unrelenting on his cock.

Stein’s breathing is shallow, his forehead, chest and shoulders red and slick with sweat. “Spill for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, breathless into Tony’s ear.

“Ngh… if– if I do…” Tony pants, swallows his moans, closes his eyes. It feels so good, teetering on the brink, but he can’t, not when what comes after will only harm him, both physically and emotionally, when Stein fails to stop. So he begs, “If I do, it’ll hurt… after…please, Stein. Please don’t make me…” The revelation will break him.

Stein pauses, his thrusts stopping abruptly.

Tony hazards a glance up at the man’s face and sees his obvious displeasure. It is as if a cloud has descended upon his face. That look awakens something in Tony; call it an old fear, a remnant from before not yet squashed with his change in circumstance.

“Okay… Okay, I’ll– I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Just…” Tony tries to move, to restart their coupling. “Come on,” he pleads, his tone and pace becoming near frantic. “I can please you. I can–” Tony is good at this, made for it even; Master Obie always said so. He loves Stein. He can do this for him, bring him pleasure at the expense of Tony’s own body. He wants to; in fact, nothing will make him happier–

And then Stein will keep him.

Stein slips out, and something inside Tony shrivels. “Shhhhh… Tuni,” he says, turning him over, trying to gather him in his arms.

But Tony resists. “No!” he protests, trying to slide back onto Stein to no avail. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can do better. I can. Please, Stein. I’ll be good.” He slides two fingers back into himself, trying to demonstrate how lax and open he is, that he can take whatever Stein will give him. “You want to fuck me more? I can take it. Whatever you want, honey.”

Stein only holds him, shushes his cries, and runs a hand softly, soothingly, up and down his back.

“I can– I want… I want to please you.”

“It’s alright. You did so well.”

Tony can feel Stein’s dick softening against his hip, dry and unsatisfied. He clenches his asshole on nothing, the slip only from olive oil. “Liar,” he grumbles, then braces himself for punishment for issuing such a grave insult.

But Stein only continues to hold him close, stroke his back. “You did. I only want you to feel good, sweetheart. If it does not, you should speak your mind. I would never want to bring you harm, and it makes me sad to hear others have. But you shared that with me, and for that I am glad. It must have been difficult,” he tells him. “I cannot imagine what you have had to endure.”

Tony doesn’t hold back then. The tears fall freely on Stein’s chest as Tony sobs and shakes, safe in a lover’s arms for the very first time.

* * *

It takes them over a week to return to Balki’s homestead. Stein doesn’t attempt sex again in the interim, but he doesn’t discard Tony either, a fact that makes Tony deeply grateful, even though Stein thinks he ought not to be.

Balki welcomes them back with open arms, happy to see Stein again, obviously worried he would have stayed away once he tracked down his wayward family. Once Stein gets Tony situated in their pit house, he goes to Balki who is currently standing in his yard overlooking the hayfields, to speak of his journey and his plans for Tony.

They talk of Samr and Wallanda, his wife and the settlement he had made in Gallia. Balki is happy to hear they had survived, landed on their feet, and are thriving.

And then Stein tells him about Brega.

“I am sorry to hear about Saraidh. Your mother was a good woman.”

“It is all right. Everything turned out for the best. She had a full life after Joar, a husband and children beside,” Stein says, reiterating what he had told Tony not too long ago. “She was happy, and that’s all I ever wanted for her in the end.”

Balki bites his lip, his expression pensive. “I suppose that rings true,” he says slowly, pausing for a spell as he works out how to express the next bit. “Still, it would have been nice if you could have spoken to her, seen her again. It has been so long – too long – over half your life you have been wishing to find her again, to find your family, your home.” He eyes the other man’s hair, just as long and wild as it was when he left. “I know how much you desired that, and I am sorry you could not find that which you have been searching for for so very long.”

“Oh, but I have, Balki,” Stein tells him, meeting the eye of his oldest and dearest friend, his brother in all but blood. “I have traveled far, found my mother and blood brother who had fled and made lives for themselves in foreign lands, but the only place I can call home, the only place I belong is here with you, my brother. You and our family,” he grasps his shoulder. “You’ve always been there for me, Balki, even when I floundered, you were always there to hold me together, to hold me steady. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for that, so… Thank you Balki.”

“It were nothing, Stein,” Balki says, his eyes suspiciously misty.

“No really… I know I can be a pain at times,” – and isn’t that the understatement of the century – “but you’ve always been there for me.”

Balki hums. They stand together, staring out over the valley in companionable silence.

Stein is the first to break it.

“There is one other thing,” he says, his gaze dropping to his feet as he scuffs the bottom of his boot. “I have decided to free Tuni.”

Balki scratches his ear at the news and clears his throat. “Do you require help with the preparations? You can use the main house of course.”

Stein looks over at him. “…That’s it? Are you not surprised?”

“Not in the slightest. I saw he wore no collar when you returned. Truth told, I thought it would happen sooner, soon as you brought him home. You could never suffer the notion of owning another, and then after...” Balki pauses, uncertain how to proceed.

So Stein prompts him, “After?”

“You will always be my brother, Stein. Nothing you do can ever sway my feelings when it comes to you and your place in our family. Know that I will always love you,” he says, hesitating for a beat before segueing into the meat of the matter. “In all our years together, I have never seen you quite taken with anyone as you are with Tuni.”

Stein is silent at that.

“Am I wrong?”

He could deny it, and Balki wouldn’t exactly believe him, but he would accept the answer as it is, but that would require him to deny Tony as well, so instead he asks, “Was it so obvious?”

“If one knew you well enough,” – a pause – “I don’t think anyone else knows, but the longer you go without a wife–”

“I will not marry.”

“I know that now,” Balki sighs, running fingers through his hair. “It is your life, and you will live it as you choose. I simply wish to assure you that if the worst were to happen, then you do not have to worry about Tuni. He will always have a place here. We take care of our own.”

“…Thank you, Balki. I mean it.”

“I know you do,” he says, turning heel towards the barn. “Now, about Tuni’s _frelsis-öl_ … we can pick out a sheep for the occasion, if you would like.”

* * *

Stein had explained the ceremony to Tony, had provided him the necessary freedmen’s ounces along with the gift from Balki of a sacrificial sheep and strong ale brewed from three measures for the subsequent feasting. He had even reviewed what Tony’s new status as a freedman would entail, its privileges and the remaining ties binding him to his former master both, with one glaring alteration, just between the two of them:

“If there ever comes a time when you no longer want to be in my service in any capacity, you are free to leave. I will not bind you to the letter of the law. You can move, purchase lands, or– or marry another without my approval. You do not owe me gratitude for your freedom, nor do I expect–”

“I will not leave you,” Tony interjects with finality. “I do not want another.”

“Not now mayhap, but–”

“Or ever.”

Stein is silent at that, then: “Just know it is always an option for you is all. I will not trap you in my service nor force you to warm my bed for fear of re-enslavement, neither now nor in the future.”

The ceremony proceeds without a hitch. Balki weighs out the freedman’s ounces in front of his four brother-in-laws and eldest nephew, handing the sum to Stein. Tony invites Stein to the freedom feast as his guest of honor where Balki trots out one of his own sheep wearing a simulacrum of Tony’s old slave collar for Tony to slaughter in advance of the feast, signifying the death of his old life as a thrall.

“More ale?” Tony offers Stein as his thrall for the very last night.

Stein groans, his eyes unfocused and bleary, but he holds out his cup nonetheless. Tony fills it.

“Drunk as can be,” Tony teases. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say this is your wedding feast.”

Stein lifts up his cup. “I drink to that, I will,” he slurs, but he looks askance in Tony’s general direction, offering his drink to one of two Tunis in his field of vision. “If this is my wedding true, should you not be drinking from the same cup as I?”

Tony blushes but says nothing.

* * *

“Tuni, I would like you to cut my hair,” Stein says two days later on the following Wash Day after Tony and he had finished their soak with the other men.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Stein cups Tony’s face in both hands and looks down on him with a certain softness borne of love and gratitude. “I have found my home.”

Tony swallows. “All right.”

And so Stein sits on a stool just inside the pit house, stripped of his clothing down to a loincloth with a sheet laid underneath on the floor and a ragged one circling his neck to catch any errant strands. Tony splits his hair in two, with the hair from the top of his head fashioned into a bun and the longer strands from the sides and back of his head gathered together and bound at the base of his neck. He holds a razor to the lower bundle just above the linen tie.

“Last opportunity to back out.”

“Do it,” Stein confirms.

Tony slices through the bundle, passing it to Stein.

“I feel lighter already,” he jokes. He runs his fingers feeling through the length of it, frowning. “Did it look this dry and frizzy on my head?”

“Worse,” Tony replies absently as he works, combing water through the remaining strands.

“It’s a wonder you ever fell in love with me.”

“Hey!” he exclaims in mock indignation. “I resent the implication that I am shallow enough to overlook your rippling muscles and handsome face and perfect skin for want of a good haircut.”

Stein crosses his arms. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Tony snorts. “There was also a decent man under all that truly unfortunate hair.” He shears off the back – “Kind” – evens it out – “Smart” – fades up to the top – “Selfless to a fault.” He continues to work on the back and sides, cleaning up the rough cuts. “How could I not fall in love with that?”

He loosens the top bundle, combing it wet then trimming off the split ends but keeping it relatively long as is the style among the other Norsemen. Tony then pivots to the front, pushing open the edges of the sheet to slide into Stein’s lap while facing him, still concentrating on his golden locks as he wraps his arms around Stein’s shoulders to braid his hair down his back. His neck strains in Stein’s eye line, and his groin presses snug against Stein’s own, rubbing on the growing erection in such a way that can’t possibly be accidental.

“Tuni…” Stein’s voice is breathy. “Are you finished, Tuni?” He wants to lick a line up the long column of that throat, to whisper sweet nothings as he nibbles on Tony’s earlobe at the terminus.

“Almost” – Tony reaches around, grinds his hips subtly into the larger man – “And there we go.”

Stein kisses his neck then, his hands coming round to massage the globes of Tony’s ass as he thrusts up, feeling Tony’s own erection against his. “Do you… Do you want…”

“Yes.”

Stein stands, hefting Tony up as well as Tony undoes the fastener around his neck, letting the sheet fall. He carries him to their bed, kneels, and lays him out on the soft pile of sheepskins, following shortly after to hover over Tony, capture his kiss as he fumbles for his satchel to retrieve the oil he had purchased in Dublin.

Tony knows where he had gone wrong in Dublin, and he doesn’t plan to make the same mistake twice.

“Let me,” he says, taking the oil from Stein to use on himself. He pushes Stein onto his back, slicking up his own fingers to work into his ass as he trailed down Stein’s body, kissing his chest, his abdominals, all the way down to his–

Stein gasps when Tony’s lips close around the weeping head of his cock, the flat of his tongue pressed wet and firm against the underside, laving the hot flesh with broad swipes as his palm works the shaft. He slides up then down further and further, taking more of Stein in his mouth with every downswing. His tongue licks up the side, around the underside of his tip, one hand always stroking his shaft while the other ghosts over his inner thigh, cups his balls and further down to press against his perineum. Stein stops him before he can slide over his asshole, so Tony knows to leave that alone entirely.

Leaving one hand on Stein’s dick, Tony’s other hand drifts downward to his own asshole where he fingers himself open, shying away from his own prostate that Stein had been so fond of before, simply stretching and slicking the way for Stein’s cock to follow. He doesn’t touch his own dick nor does he rub against his nipples, knowing better than to touch his body more than necessary. Because Tony can’t allow himself to have anything good, not this early when he still needs to please Stein. Maybe after, when Stein had already come deep inside him, when he is satisfied and done with Tony’s body, Tony can curl up on his side, face the wall, bite the corner of a sheet, and help himself finish. After, of course. And quietly. Some men become disappointed or offended if Tony did not finish with them as a result of their actions, would take it as the challenge it wasn’t to make him come first next time, either not knowing or not caring how much it downright chafed to pleasure them to completion after he had already come. Stein did not seem the type to get angry, but he might become sad, and the last thing Tony wants to do is make him sad.

And so he mounts Stein, sinking down slowly on his member, exaggerating his moans, making a real show of it. He grinds his hips against Stein’s, bounces upon the cock in his ass, varying his speed and depth to try to bring it to orgasm, actively ignoring his own needs to avoid early release. If it feels too good, if Tony spills early… what comes after will only hurt him.

But Tony should have known Stein is not one to stay passive in sex. Stein sits up, wraps his arms under Tony’s, and kisses him as he exchanges positions, depositing him on his back with Stein over him and holding his hands in his pressed down into the sheets. Stein’s knee settles between Tony’s thighs. He manually parts Tony’s legs wider, lifting his ass up at an angle to thrust deep inside, sliding over Tony’s prostate and inspiring a shout of surprise and pleasure. Stein leans over to kiss him as he works himself in and out of Tony’s channel, stimulating his prostate on every third or fourth thrust.

It’s too much. Tony tries to change the angle, to put more space between their bodies, to make it feel _less_ , but Stein isn’t having it. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he’s murmuring against his neck, mouthing the flesh there as Tony pants and nearly groans from the sensation. “It’s alright to feel good. You can have this,” another kiss, “I want to give it to you.” His hand closes on Tony’s dick, stroking him expertly.

And maybe it’s Stein’s touch, his earnest whispers calling him _sweetheart_ , or the fact that Tony is already so enamored with him, but Tony spills much too early, spurting across his chest, painting the space between their bodies.

And Stein is still hard inside him. It’s all right for now, as he thrusts up into Stein’s fist, riding out his orgasm, but soon enough Stein will flip him over, push Tony’s head into the pallet with a palm pressed firmly on the back of his neck as he re-enters Tony’s puffy, abused channel, and then–

Stein slips out and lies beside him, his arm around Tony’s upper body, cradling him close. He presses gentle kisses to Tony’s temple as he strokes his own erection. His breathing quickens, and his body becoming taut with a sharp inhale as he comes, spilling over Tony’s release drying on his own stomach.

Stein wipes his hand on an extra sheet before cleaning off Tony and himself. Then he settles in next to Tony, kissing him once again full on the mouth. “That was… I love you, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And Tony can’t help it. He bursts into tears.

Stein looks alarmed. “Tuni… Shhhh… Tuni, sweetheart. Please don’t cry. Did I… did I hurt you?”

Tony shakes his head, trying (and failing) to contain his tears, his full-body trembling, the snot running down his nose. Gods, he must look a mess. “No one…” he manages, trying to compose himself, starting again, “I did not know it could feel good for me, too.”

So Stein gathers him up in his arms, embracing Tony like he is someone to cherish. Stein is sad for Tony, but he is also angry at Master Obie, at anyone and everyone who has ever hurt him so deeply, so intimately, that Tony had learned to not only expect but also accept pain and discomfort from an act of love. That to be loved was to give up pieces of himself in service of another’s gratification.

It’s a long road back, Stein knows, but he will be there for Tony every step of the way. They’ll live out their lives here and be happy, but for now, Stein holds him, comforts and protects him against the demons of the past.

 _I love you,_ he whispers. _I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the end. It was very difficult to write this all in one go without any feedback, so if you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment letting me know :)
> 
> Definitions:
> 
> Frelsis-öl means “free-neck-ale” or “Freedom-ale-drinking” or freedom feast. When a slave bought their freedom or a master gifted it to them, there was a ritualized celebration as described in the fic where the freedman served their master for the last time as a thrall. Freedmen were still beholden to their masters and were subject to various restrictions, but the former master also similarly owed them support, maintenance, and protection, and in many places, freedmen were adopted into their former master’s family. If a freedman failed to comply with legal duties towards their former owners, they could be re-enslaved for “lack of gratitude.” So I thought it was important that Stein state he would never use these laws to trap Tony in a relationship if he wanted out at any time.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who missed it, please be sure to check out the art that inspired this fic by MassiveSpaceWren: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24429595
> 
> You can also check out the other writer from Team FORTUNE, if you are so inclined. The fic is called "Building on Muddy Ground" by InTheShadows: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432334


End file.
